


And The Long Night Takes All

by PaintedElectric



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canonical Rape/Non-con, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loss, Manipulation, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex, Slow Burn, Vaginal Sex, probablyalotmoretagsicantthinkofrightnow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21574012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedElectric/pseuds/PaintedElectric
Summary: The dead are coming and winter follows in their wake.  As Winterfell prepares for battle, Sandor thought not to catch the attention of the Lady of Winterfell when so little time remains.  But always, other forces are at work and pieces are moving, regardless of whether or not the pawns are aware that they are players.  Banding together for the sake of humankind is the most monumental task for the living as former friends and recent foes meet on the battlefield to face the oncoming storm. Multiple character POV.
Relationships: Bronn & Sandor Clegane, Jorah Mormont & Daenerys Targaryen, Sandor Clegane & Arya Stark, Sandor Clegane & Beric Dondarrion & Tormund Giantsbane, Sandor Clegane & Jorah Mormont, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister & Sansa Stark
Comments: 21
Kudos: 74





	1. A Man on Trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been awaiting the return of my muse which came back in the form of needing to draw a portrait of Tyrion for a friend. I hesitated to begin another story, but I wanted one that covered the Great Battle with the dead because I feel like that was the build up of 8 seasons, the threat of the White Walkers, not Cersei. This will be slow-coming since I'm not nearly as far into planning this one as I was when I first posted my other story to this website. I hope to make it as entertaining for you all as my last one was. As always, I appreciate your feedback and your dedication to reading.
> 
> Things that deviate from the show:  
> -Bran is not a complete and utter emotionless, useless sack  
> -There is no subplot in which Littlefinger tried (and ultimately failed) to divide the Stark sisters and died because that was stupid as hell. He's still alive at this point  
> -Cersei decided to not be a dunce and agreed (and is following through) on leading her army North to help fight in the Great Battle  
> -The dead have not yet broken through the Wall  
> -There will be very little Jon/Daenerys because I don’t want there to be, sue me
> 
> Takes place during Daenerys and Co.'s arrival in Winterfell at the beginning of Season 8, excluding the above info.
> 
> Happy reading!

**SANDOR**

No sooner had he dismounted his horse that he felt a prickle run down his nape and he revolved slowly on the spot to see an enormous white wolf with vivid red eyes staring unblinkingly at him. He had seen the head of Robb Stark’s direwolf, a giant thing that dwarfed the body to which it had been crudely and savagely sewn. The size of that wolf’s head had left Sandor in awe at such a massive creature, but to see an intact wolf now with its gaze focused solely on him made him wish he had stayed atop his horse or better yet, kept riding and never come inside the damn castle to begin with. He had heard tell of how intelligent these creatures were, how they could sense a man’s motives and pounce upon those it felt threatened by.

Could this wolf sense what he had done against House Stark? If it did, it should be able to sense what he had done for them as well, but the stench of the Lannisters was hard to wash off, even years later.

The wolf’s head dipped forward as it sank into what was unmistakably a stalking crouch and Sandor braced himself to drop, leap aside, or fucking run for it. A miniscule twitch in the wolf’s maw indicated that it was about to charge with its teeth bared. In a courtyard full of people, not one seemed to notice the albino wolf about to run down its prey.

Sandor prepared himself for a fight that would not end in his favor, vaguely wondering what they would do with his body…

The wolf pounced, throwing its front paws up onto his shoulders and knocking him backwards into the hitching rail. Sandor’s hands flew up to protect his face as he waited for the jaws to close around his forearm. He felt an uncomfortably cold and wet nose poking into his scarred side, investigating the burned flesh. The wolf’s weight was too much for him to remain standing and he dropped to one knee. More insistent prodding at the hole that used to be his ear and then the weight was gone from his shoulders as the wolf turned tail to go cause some other unfortunate bystander to shit themselves in shock.

Feeling snow soak into the knees of his breeches, Sandor stood up and turned back to his horse when he saw a small figure standing between him and his mount. Her hair was no longer a tangled mess that suggested she could be a boy or a girl but combed into the Northern style. She was dressed in Northern leather armor with the smallest hints of her house colors peeking out here and there. Her hands were folded behind her but at her hip she still had the irritable piece of steel with the thickness of a fire poker. The look of cold recognition was prevalent on her face as she regarded him with something short of disgust.

“I half expected him to at least take a sizable bite out of you,” said the girl.

“And if he had, you would have left me bleeding and dying in the shit and mud just as you did before,” Sandor shot back.

“He wouldn’t have, though. Wolves don’t pick fights with dogs unless they have to.”

“What sort of wolf are you then, always running your fucking mouth at me just to hear yourself talk?”

“I’m a wolf of a different sort now. But it looks like you’re still a drunk dog.” She nodded at the wine pouch hanging from his saddle.

“If I had been drunk as often as I wanted to be while I had you with me, you wouldn’t be here to bitch about it, so don’t stand there and toss about insults to try and get a rise out of me. There’s worse and more grating things than you to kill in the days to come.”

“Precisely why I’m standing out in the cold talking to you when I could be making better use of my time. You have information I need.”

Did he, now? She had need of him, did she? There was some amusement to be had in that knowledge.

“You fought them, the dead. You’ve seen them, heard them—“

“Smelled ‘em,” added Sandor, remembering the overpowering stench of long-rotted flesh. Even with the cruel cold of everlasting winter north of the Wall, he could still smell them in their countless numbers.

“I hear that they can only be killed with dragonglass.”

“Or Valyrian steel.”

The Stark girl pulled her cloak aside to show him an ornate handle with a single ruby encrusted in the center. He didn’t know how she’d come by a Valyrian steel dagger (no doubt she’d stolen it from a lesser master), but now that she had it, it might just serve her well.

“Are they fast?” she continued. “Do they move as one or individually? Do they fight with the experience they had while they were yet living beings, or do they hack away mindlessly?”

They were all of those things and none of those things. They were constant and tiring. They were—

“Endless, that’s what they are. You kill one and a hundred more take its place. That’s why we’re not gonna win,” Sandor told her resolutely.

“Is it ‘we’ already” asked the girl. “Do you fight for the Starks and the North, for the Dragon Queen and her Unsullied and Dothraki?”

“I’ll never serve again, girl, you can be damned sure of that. I fight for myself and I have something in common with all of these stupid fuckers about to fight an unbeatable army: I’m not dead.”

His answer did not please her, but he had none other to give her. She had that dumb Stark bravery about her, ready to face any foe with reckless valor and lying out her arse about being frightened by it. If she planned to be in the thick of things, fighting alongside seasoned warriors, she would see. When the dead swarmed and came for the North, she would see…

She slunk away into the shadows without a parting word and he gave an impartial shrug to himself.

He pulled the cap off of his wine pouch with his teeth and spat it out to drain the rest of the thing but choked on the lot of it when he saw that he had an audience. She was watching him from the hoarding above, expressionless and untelling apart from a slight, almost invisible hitch in her chest as he caught her in the act.

She looked much the same but her face was fuller, no longer hollow and frail as it had been as a child. Instead of the nonsensical frilled and revealing silks of King’s Landing, she was dressed in a cloak with fur trimming and underneath, what appeared to be black upon black, so ill-fitting for a woman of her complexion. Her hair was braided in the Northern way, though not the same as when he had first laid eyes upon her in this very courtyard. Being the Lady of Winterfell meant she now had to look the part and she had inherited the right to wear a proper Northern lady’s styling of both hair and wardrobe. It both suited her and did not suit her at all, staging herself to be what a situation or others had commanded that she be. She had been Joffrey’s loyal betrothed then and she was now a devoted lady of a Northern stronghold.

But still a little bird, still a frightened little thing.

And beside her with his pointed chin and immaculately styled goatee in the same rich furs made entirely of black and grey—was Lord Petyr Baelish. Sandor had last heard that the man had wed Lysa Arryn, but he was not about to hand over Arya Stark to the late lady’s widower. Near on four years ago that had been, so what in the hells was Littlefinger doing here now?

That shouldn’t be a question Sandor was even asking, given the circumstances. So many were here now—wildlings, Northmen, lords of King’s Landing’s court, misfits and wanderers the lot of them. In a place where both Brienne of Tarth and the last Targaryen could gather, it was no wonder that Littlefinger would be here as well.

“You want to fuck her,” said a deep, gravelly voice.

The wildling Tormund Giantsbane was sauntering toward him with a devilish look to him that suggested he had been watching Sandor for nearly as long as Sansa Stark had. Bringing up the rear was Beric Dondarrion now with a full beard and perhaps a few more scars.

“How many times do I have to tell you to fuck off before I can get rid of you?” Sandor asked Beric in greeting.

“At least once more,” said Beric, glancing up to where the Lady of Winterfell was conversing with Littlefinger. “A pretty thing she was when I last saw her, but she’s a right beauty now, as befits her status. As stunning as her mother ever was, if not more.”

Sandor really could not give two shits if the girl measured up to the beauty standards of her mother. She was the same as she had ever been, only taller—and with full breasts. She had a woman’s body now and Sandor had to wonder if she had experienced a woman’s pleasure even though it was not his place to wonder such a thing. He wondered how she had come home to Winterfell, who had brought her here, and what had given her that unfeeling look that did not look at home on her face. As a young woman in Joffrey’s court, she was a sad, miserable little thing, but that goodness in her instilled by a proper upbringing could not be stamped out. Even a whinging piece of shit like Joffrey could not break that kindhearted part of her—but someone else had.

Someone else had damaged her and given her cause to look so distant and solemn. Sandor had an urge to know who had done such a thing. He needed to know who had etched that expression of betrayal and sorrow onto her face—and kill them if they yet drew breath. It wasn’t his place to bring that justice to her, but foolish child as she had been, she had been one of the few good things in this world and the person responsible for taking that from her deserved death.

A soldier approached them, pockmarked face looking like he had served several masters to survive the handful of wars the Seven Kingdoms had seen in the past several years. An experienced man, a tired man, and one of many that they had at their disposal to fight the dead. Sandor had to shake the feeling of foreboding doom that every face he saw around him might add to the dead army in just a manner of weeks. The thousands of men, women, and children preparing for war might die and come back with cold, lifeless blue eyes.

“Sandor Clegane and Beric Dondarrion,” said the soldier, “Her Grace, Lord Snow, and Lady Stark request your presence in the Great Hall.”

Wondering what he and Beric could have done that merited an audience with the Dragon Queen herself, Sandor looked accusingly at Beric, asking him without words what he had done to bring punishment down on them without being inside the castle walls ten minutes.

“Might as well go where we’re summoned,” Beric suggested.

“I thought the Brotherhood Without Banners answered to no house?”

“We didn’t, but we’re disbanded now. And in any case, there is no banner for the living, which we all are a part of. Come.”

Sandor fell into line behind the soldier and Beric, mind reeling with all the possible reasons for being called before the highest ranking occupants of the castle. He had to duck through the Great Hall entryway as before which momentarily distracted him from the fact that the room was packed in with Northerners all facing a cleared spot at the center, before the high table. The Targaryen woman sat in a chair placed at the middle of the table with Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister on her right and the Lady of Winterfell on her left. At the far left edge of the table was a young man in a wheeled chair, but Sandor could not place him, not that he cared to. 

His eyes were automatically drawn to Sansa Stark, noticing too late that she was regarding him with equal concentration. The gaze that they held might have lasted some years and he would not have noticed. In closer proximity, he ached at the sight of her, the shadows under her eyes, what looked like scars just barely hidden from view by a high collar.

Whoever the fucker was that had taken the rest of her happiness, he had _hurt_ her as well and Sandor suddenly did not trust himself to be in a room full of people with a weapon close at hand, for he had not been disarmed upon entering the hall and was feeling animosity toward every individual in the room that was not the young woman across from him.

He placed his hand on his sword pommel to steady it, feeling that there was not enough space for a man of his size. The eyes of four dozen men and women pressed in on him standing there, staring dumbly at the Lady of Winterfell.

“Sandor Clegane and Beric Dondarrion, step forward,” summoned the Targaryen woman.

Beric had to nudge Sandor in the ribs to make him move and the two of them approached the high table, stopping a respectable distance from it and waiting for the self-proclaimed queen to speak.

“I understand that a proper rest is in order after such a long journey, so I will do my best to make this a relatively short affair. You both were a part of the group that willingly went north of the Wall to bring back evidence of the White Walkers,” said the Targaryen. “Among others. You have my thanks for your service both to me and the houses that stand behind me in our fight against the dead. However, it has been brought to my attention that there are past crimes to atone for and that both of you avoided such atonement by living lawless lives these past several years, answering to no house and calling no man lord, calling no man king, no woman queen.”

Sandor had to swallow a harsh laugh. An endless army of walking corpses was marching toward them and his past was being put on display to be judged by a woman from across the sea. This was one of the many reasons why he could never stand being at court: the proceedings were always a bunch of horseshite with ninnys and nances arguing over the proper way to do things and punishing men for lesser crimes than their own.

“You find the circumstances amusing, ser?” asked the Targaryen, eyeing Sandor somewhat scornfully.

Remembering that this was a queen with two dragons he was speaking to and not someone who would take threats lightly, Sandor brought his former courtesies to the forefront of his mind to put them back into practice. “With respect, Your Grace, if I’m to be put on trial for the things I’ve done when the greatest battle humans have ever faced is on its way, it would have served everyone better and saved time if you had tossed me over the side of the ship before we made port at Eastwatch by the Sea. Or better yet, you should have pushed me off your dragon, but then there would have been no one to catch your man there.” Sandor nodded at Ser Jorah Mormont who stood dutifully behind the Targaryen, and the knight cleared his throat and made a point of interjecting himself into the conversation here.

“If it please Your Grace, I would speak for him when the time comes to call for witnesses on his behalf,” said the knight.

That was a kindness Sandor had not expected, though it certainly stirred something inside the Targaryen, for she gave a small nod to her man in acknowledgment of his proposal. And privately, Sandor thought the knight better damn well speak out on Sandor’s behalf. They had fought side by side against the endless waves of cadavers and for the knight to not come to Sandor’s aid now would be a very poor demonstration of the honor and loyalty he had swore to uphold when he took his vows.

“My sworn shield vouches for you, ser,” said the Targaryen.

“I’m not a knight, Your Grace.”

She paused, glancing sideways at the Lady Stark for clarification.

“A shield to Joffrey Baratheon, but a man of no spoken vows. He was given the task by his brother’s reputation,” said the lady. “He made a point of correcting me several times whenever I addressed him as such.”

“So a man who never swore vows of any kind and yet lived in a place where only vows matter finds himself serving the North and a queen he knows nothing about,” said the Targaryen.

“He serves neither,” said the Stark girl from an alcove beside the boy in the wheeled chair. “I believe his words were something along the lines of fighting for those still living while serving no man or woman.”

Her words were less than helpful and Sandor tried to shoot her a dirty look to inform her that this would not go unpunished.

“If it would absolve you of every wrongdoing you have ever done, you would not bend the knee even now?” asked the Targaryen.

“There is nothing to absolve,” said Lady Stark. “He has done far more good for my house than he has done disservice. Service to the Starks in assisting with the procuring of the wight to grant us allies in the fight to come, service to the Starks in protecting my sister Arya Stark for the better part of a year, service to the Starks in protecting me during my time spent as a prisoner to the Lannisters. Though not noble to begin with, he chose his path and deserted the one that would have labeled him a traitor. I would see him pardoned for his dedication to my house.”

“And yet he forsook his position to Joffrey Baratheon,” observed the Targaryen. “Though I would not wish to serve the boy king either, I would serve my duty until I was relieved of it.”

“I never said the words with good reason, Your Grace,” said Sandor. “I refused to take a knight’s vows when none of them had ever completely stayed true to them. I’d wager even your knight there has broken a vow or two.”

“You play a dangerous game in accusing of disloyalty the one man who would defend you,” said the Targaryen disapprovingly.

“If I’ve come this far only to die because a knight’s words couldn’t save me, I deserve to die,” said Sandor shortly. “My truth is this: Tywin Lannister appointed me guardian over his daughter when she became queen and Cersei relieved me of that duty to protect her son. I did as I was told, but I never gave my word to the gods that I would stay with the cunt.”

“Is there anyone who stood witness to this?”

“You mean besides my brother who has witnessed this very scene?” said the lady, though Sandor had no clue as to what she might be referring to. Jon Snow was certainly not there the day Sandor had been assigned to Joffrey.

“There were a select few privy to the appointing of Sandor Clegane to Joffrey Baratheon, Your Grace,” said Littlefinger from behind Lady Stark. “It was a private occasion.” Sandor neither needed nor wanted any help from the slimy little bastard because he knew it came at a price and he would not go to his grave in debt to Petyr Baelish.

“But you were there, as was I,” said Lord Varys, another man Sandor was surprised but also not at all surprised to see in the Dragon Queen’s company. “It was not a grand affair, Your Grace, but Lord Baelish and I were present at the small council meeting when Cersei Lannister reassigned Sandor Clegane to Joffrey Baratheon. Sandor Clegane took to his new task without question, for he could not very well say no, could he? The second son of a lesser house, a vassal to House Lannister, he owed what small standing he had in the court to Tywin Lannister and if he had refused—if at any point in that boy’s wretched life he had refused to do his duty—he would have been executed. Only when there was no one to stop him did he flee during the Battle of the Blackwater.”

“Where did he flee to?”

“He came to me,” said the voice of what had once been Sandor’s little bird. “He came to offer me a chance to escape King’s Landing which I foolishly did not take for fear that we would be caught, that he would be hanged and I would be beaten worse than I already had been. And then he was gone.”

“And he tried to return me to my mother and brother Robb at the Twins,” added the Stark girl. “When we were too late, he made the journey to the Eyrie to hand me over to my Aunt Lysa who had recently died and with no one to whom he could safely surrender me, he kept by my side. No duty or vow made him do that. No duty or vow made him go beyond the Wall, either. He’s always done as he’s liked so long as there was no one to stop him. For better or worse, he’s done as he pleases and some are alive to attest to that while others aren’t. My sister and I are part of the former.”

“I would see him pardoned, as I have said,” claimed the lady. “He is a formidable fighter and one we cannot afford to lose in the fight to come when every man counts. And as a friend to House Stark, he deserves the right to choose if he would stay with us or leave. I doubt he thought that he would be called before what may very well be considered a trial for returning to the North, yet even so, he came here of his own free will.”

“I would not be overly eager to fight for the very people who placed me on trial to question my allegiance,” said the voice of a scowling girl from Sandor’s left. The sigil on her breast put her as a member of House Mormont, though he had no idea how a girl was given the right to speak at a trial, no matter her affiliation with House Mormont.

“Lady Mormont,” acknowledged Jon Snow and Sandor had to do a quick mental reteaching of the greater houses in the North. Lord Jeor Mormont had a sister who ascended to the head of house after the former took the black. Ser Jorah Mormont had forfeited the title by exiling himself to Essos, leaving Jeor’s sister, Maege. And Maege had had a daughter who must be this fierce little lady who was speaking out in Sandor’s favor.

“If we want men to fight for us, we must prove that we trust them to do so, not accuse them of sins long past. I would not blame this man if he took a horse and rode South with all haste just to put distance between himself and his accusers.”

“I did not ask for him here to accuse him,” said Lady Stark. “I summoned him to let it be heard loudly that he has been pardoned despite what others might think or claim. I called for the witnesses who stand here today because I want it known, I want the word spread that he has been forgiven for any crimes against House Stark whilst under the order of Joffrey Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. House Stark pardoned him long ago…”

She meant for those last words to resonate with him. She wanted him to know that she had forgiven him for frightening her, for being present at her father’s execution, for doing nothing when Joffrey made public sport of her, for bruising her when he grasped her too tightly in his anger, for everything. She had forgiven him many years prior, perhaps the night he left her to see the Blackwater burn.

“Sandor Clegane, you are pardoned of any past wrongdoings associated with your time serving House Lannister.”

Thinking privately that it might have saved time if they had just come outright and said that at the beginning, Sandor could only give a slight nod, though not one of gratitude. He did not think his time serving the Lannisters would ever be brought up again, least of all with the Queen of Dragons And Whatnot standing between him and his pardon.

“I would testify to that before the court in King’s Landing,” continued Lady Stark.

“As would I,” said the Stark girl.

“As would I,” added Ser Jorah Mormont.

“And when I sit the throne, I will declare it to be so,” said the Targaryen. “I do not judge or condemn a man for past sins if he has redeemed himself in the eyes of many or few. I thank you for your part in helping secure help from the South, and for saving Ser Jorah beyond the Wall.”

“Lord Beric Dondarrion,” called Lady Stark.

“If it please m’lady, I forfeited my titles long ago after the Lord of Light brought me back from what would have been an early grave at the hands of one Gregor Clegane,” said Beric.

“Don’t fucking start,” warned Sandor.

“My sister tells me that you were one of two leaders to the Brotherhood Without Banners, men who recognized no law during the war.”

“Aye, we recognized no law, but we tended to side with wolves over lions. Our plans were to return your sister to your mother before Sandor Clegane gave himself that task. In the years following, we delivered justice when the Lord of Light called for it.”

“The Red Priest who brought him back died north of the Wall,” said Jon Snow. “He was a good man, selfless and brave. The Brotherhood died with him and now only Beric Dondarrion remains. He believes he was resurrected to serve a purpose that has not yet been fulfilled, which is why he finds himself here. I have not known him long, nor do I know him well, but he, Sandor Clegane, and Thoros of Myr willingly left the safety of the Seven Kingdoms to aid Ser Jorah, Tormund Giantsbane, the lad Gendry and myself on our quest for the queen. I would vouch for his pardon.”

“As would I,” added the queen’s knight and Sandor made the assumption that the man was too honorable for his own good. Sandor suspected that a cow pie could be put on trial and the knight would defend it.

“Beric Dondarrion, you are pardoned for your past association with the lawless, provided that you do not resume the habit upon completion of the war against the dead,” said the Targaryen with a hint of warning.

“The days of lawlessness are long gone, Your Grace,” Beric assured her, bowing much deeper than Sandor had.

“You all have witnessed this here today because I intend for you to remember it and recite it if any man, woman, or child should question the integrity of these men you see before you,” said Lady Stark. “Scouts report that the Lannister army is within three days’ ride and the men of the South will be quick to point out traitors to their queen. Defend the honor of these men; they are here to fight for you.”

The room began to stir as the lords and ladies rose to excuse themselves but Sandor had not even begun to think of if it was too early to swipe a strip of cured meat from the kitchens when--

“Sandor Clegane, I would speak with you privately.”

If there had been those who had not caught on to the obvious attention Sandor had been given by the Lady of Winterfell, they all would bloody well know now.

Lady Stark beckoned he follow her into an antechamber, bidding her own sworn shield wait without. Sandor had no words for Brienne of Tarth; their reunion had already come and gone. Ducking his head once again, he shut the chamber door, knowing that for this young woman to ask for a private audience with him, it would raise all the wrong sorts of questions and if Lord Varys was here, the Spider could be counted on to spread rumors of a sensual nature.

“Best make this quick. More than one set of eyes saw me follow you in,” said Sandor.

“I did not attempt to be discrete in asking for a word with you.”

But that would not prevent the rumors from spreading. She had gone to the trouble of gathering the likings of a court just to prove his innocence. Many would say that she favored him, and in the wrong sort of way, unbecoming for a woman of her status.

“I did not expect to find you here,” said the little bird sincerely. “I thought you dead from what Arya told me.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Years away from a proper court have not softened your words. And on the subject of court, I apologize for having to subject you to that, but it was imperative to have you pardoned and spoken for—“

“That little lady had it right,” Sandor interjected.

“What about?”

“You all are sitting here and playing at courts and courtesies while your soldiers train outside in the snow to defend your walls. And the dragon woman making promises of _when she sits the throne_ as if there’ll be one once the dead reach us. It’s enough to make any man’s stomach turn. You’ve learned how to be a player in this game, little bird, but you’re still ignorant about many things.”

“I alone knew the importance of having you pardoned. I do not ask for gratitude, but I do ask that you accept mine.”

“That I will not be doing.”

He put his hand on the door handle.

“No,” said the girl, moving in front of him to block his way. “You revoked my appreciation before, but you will not do so today. You are going to stand there and accept it.”

Against his will, he was impressed. She had never faltered in pointing out his anger, but she had still been an ignorant child unwise in the ways of the world and he would not allow her to have the last word when she knew so little of anything. Now, she knew the full power of her status and for as long as slept beneath her roof, he would have to do as commanded—to an extent. He had taken orders for far too long and was in no great hurry to do so again, but he would stand here and listen to her spew her courteous gratuity only to humor her.

She was the one person whose orders he would not obey.

“Are you going to stand there, or shall I have my sworn shield make you?” she asked presently.

“Say what you want to, little bird,” Sandor invited, now somewhat amused.

Removing her hands from the door, she took one of his between them and squeezed. “Arya is alive because of you. Jon is alive because of you. And so am I. You had no reason to ever defend us, but you did anyway. You are a better man than you allow yourself to believe. And I would have you know that we see you as one.”

“I don’t need anyone seeing me as a good man or a piece of shit,” remarked Sandor irritably. “All of our lives are going to be cut short and it’s best not to live them owing someone for this or that.”

“You stood before a woman with two dragons at her disposal and you did almost nothing to defend yourself,” said the little bird somewhat accusingly as if she found fault in his feeble attempts to speak out on his own behalf during his trial. “You allowed her to seek out those who would testify against you and you gave little to no fight. Is life so meaningless to you?”

“I went north of the Wall with your brother. I saw the army of the dead and I saw the one who commands them. I know what’s coming for us all and the way I see it, if I don’t die now, I’ll die when they get here. There’s no winning against them, not with every man in the Seven Kingdoms wielding a sword and two dragons. I watched the dead burn with dragonfire, but I watched their leader kill a dragon with one hit from an iced javelin. We don’t stand a fucking chance, girl.”

“Then why are you here when you should be riding south to flee what scares you so much?”

Many things he had been called by many people, but never a coward by this—this woman. He still had difficulty referring to her as such and accepting her as such, but the tiniest flinch of the long neglected muscle twixt his legs could not deny that she was indeed a woman now. 

Still, he would not be called a coward by the woman who owed her life to him.

He made what might have been a menacing step forward, for she backed herself into the wall, unwittingly cutting off her own escape route.

“If it scared me that much, I would have kept riding, but I’m still here, which should tell you exactly what I think of dying. If your new queen had dug up some crime worthy of execution, she would have killed me and I would have died a few short weeks before I die in the fight against the dead. We’re all going to die and it makes no fucking difference when or how.”

“Your words are no kinder now than they were when I knew you before,” the little bird admonished, though with a trace of sadness at the dismal fact.

“You never knew me, girl,” he corrected. “You never _knew_ me.”

She paused, considering the truth of his words, and then admitted defeat with that underlying hopeful tone he had come to hate. “I did try to, but you would not allow me to.”

True, he had dashed her every attempt to be kind and grateful to him, to open the door to more conversation than his position allowed. As the personal guard to her betrothed, it would not do to make himself well known to her, even if his words were some of the kindest she had received during her sentence as Joffrey’s prisoner. He did not want her becoming reliant on that kindness, however, and so he had kept his distance and given her harsh truths to expose her to the reality of what was happening around her. She needed to hear the sting of those words, but perhaps coming from him, they fell differently upon her ears. He apparently was not distant enough with her, otherwise he would not be having this conversation with her now.

She was _still_ trying to reach him even when both of their days were numbered…as if it made a difference.

Her sharp blue-eyed gaze asked him once again if he would allow her in, if he would open himself to her, but she did not need to waste what remained of her life trying to find a softness within him.

He reached around her, face coming down within a foot of hers, and turned the knob, pulling the door open just enough to brush against her backside in a suggestion that she move out of his way. Her shoulders dropped in a heavy sigh and she moved aside, but as he bent his neck to duck out of the antechamber, she spoke once more.

“Sandor.”

He paused, feeling the weight of his own name spoken back to him for the first time in decades. This name had been lost to him when he was still but a child, replaced with other names, cruel names: the Burned Boy, the Scarred Man, Half-Face, the Giant, the Hound, Clegane. All names that were not his, all reminders of the childhood that had marked him forever as a deformed being, of the adulthood that saw him standing in his brother’s shadow. How very odd it was to hear his name on this young woman’s lips as if it had come from there often. She sounded so familiar when she spoke it, too.

It was enough to draw him up short and wait for her to dismiss him, not that he cared one way or another. His own curiosity was what kept him in place to hear whatever she had to say, not her seniority.

“If what you say is true and there is no stopping the dead, whether or not you choose to believe it, I am glad to have seen you again before the end,” she said.

Before the end, as if she, too, was resigned for the worst. She knew what was coming even though she had not seen it as Sandor had. She believed him when he said there was no hope of outrunning it or escaping it. There would be no fleeing for the Lady of Winterfell. She would stay here with her people and die a true lady of the North.

How his little bird had grown…

As more than a foot soldier but less than a knight, he was given the option of taking up a cot in the barracks and found a spare bunk at the far end of the long but narrow room. As he sat down on the bottom and took stock of his belongings, he felt the smallest stab of remorse. His armor had rotted away and smelled of festering flesh when Brother Ray found him with it, so there was no use in keeping any of it. His horse Stranger had been taken, either by the Stark girl or Brienne of Tarth and her squire. His sword and knife had been lost to the moor. Now he had no armor, no horse, and a sword and dagger that would do nothing in a fight against the dead. Nothing to call his own except the clothes on his back and the very visible tenting at the front of his trousers.

 _No, don’t you dare_ , he warned his cock, but already it was twitching with hope and curiosity at his most recent exchange with the girl who had become a woman in his absence. She had irritated him, angered him, and confusingly aroused him.

This was the very last thing he needed to be concerned with when the dead were marching toward Winterfell and bringing the worst of winter with them.


	2. Players in the Game

**SANSA**

She had thought that her observation of the newcomers to Winterfell would go unnoticed, and so she was unprepared for the penetrating look given to her by Sandor Clegane when he caught her watching him. He had come at the rear of the procession, long after Daenerys Targaryen had followed Jon in, long after the wagon bearing Lord Varys and Tyrion and the horseback riders who served the queen. The Hound no longer served anyone, and so he could ride where he pleased which was apparently so far back that he nearly did not make it inside before they closed the gates for the evening.

When she stood upon the hoarding to watch Ghost introduce himself to the Hound, she was met with curiosity in the wolf’s apparent interest in the man. From what she knew of direwolves, they did not make contact with strangers but preferred to observe newcomers from afar and familiarize themselves at their own pace. She knew for certain that leaping upon people and sniffing with absorbed interest at their face was not normal direwolf behavior and certainly not normal behavior for Ghost.

The Hound stood his ground—which she expected from him—and did not look the least bit frightened in the aftermath as he had words with Arya that Sansa could not hear with. She had never seen the two of them interact before, but she knew of the time Arya spent in his company, the lengths to which the Hound had gone to defend her. The way Arya spoke of him suggested that she held some deep-rooted respect for him, but none that she would openly admit and a man as closed off as the Hound certainly did not show any affection or admiration for her now.

“What a collection of us here at the end of the world, fighting the dead together,” said the careful silky tone of Lord Petyr Baelish beside her. “Many old friends have fled the place where we all met to reunite at the Northern stronghold. Lord Varys, Tyrion Lannister, and the Hound. Did you suspect that one day you might see them all again in one place, all pledged to a queen you do not know?”

“I do not think any of us could have predicted this outcome, but then again, none of us could have known eight years ago that we would be preparing to battle an army of corpses. White Walkers and wights were the creatures that lived only in the stories told to us by wet nurses and septas. I would not have thought to be home if you had told me I would be here eight years ago when my father promised me to Joffrey Baratheon. I thought I would be queen with a child of my own, living happily with a golden-haired king. And I stand here now in the company of savages from across the sea, castrated men, wildlings, and dragons.”

“You trust the wildlings,” said Littlefinger pointedly.

“Because they fought for Jon and for me, so yes, I do.”

“You trust Lady Brienne.”

“Completely.”

“Do you trust The Hound?” asked Littlefinger, allowing his gaze to fall upon the Hound who was now watching Arya leave him to his own devices.

“As much as I ever did,” Sansa affirmed.

“That is something I would advise against, my lady. The wildlings fought for you recently. Lady Brienne proved herself to you recently. It has been many years since you and Sandor Clegane last laid eyes upon each other and during that time he kidnapped and tried to ransom your sister.”

As skilled a liar as Littlefinger was, since confessing to wanting to sit the Iron Throne with her at his side, his transparent attempts to conceal even the tiniest inkling of jealousy were vividly obvious to her.

“Sandor Clegane also knew that he would be fighting to the death to defend my sister against Lady Brienne and yet he did so anyway. Lady Brienne and Podrick both claimed how Arya was reluctant to go with them, not from fear of them, but dedication to her protector, for he had proven himself to her and earned her trust. And he killed her friend long ago so despite the bad blood that existed between them there, she still trusted him. I do not know what sort of man he is now, but if he would selflessly allow himself to come to harm for her as he did for me during the King’s Landing riot, I would trust him this very moment if we were set upon by the dead.”

“But he had a chance to take you, willing or not, from the Lannisters, and he didn’t. He left you to the lions,” Littlefinger reminded her.

“Perhaps, but he did not hand me over to the lion’s allies.”

And then he saw her, choking on his wineskin as he met her gaze. It was the same look he had last given her when he fled her room, left her behind when she would not willingly go. He did not force her as so many men after him had. That was the man she knew and trusted, the man Arya trusted and if he could have gained Arya’s trust, he was worthy in the sight of gods and men. She saw that look of a wounded man, longing after something he had never known in the form of goodness and kindness.

But perhaps he was not quite the same as he had been when they had last shared words. He was harsh and ill-tempered as ever, now with a penchant for speaking out of turn in the presence of lords, ladies, and queens. He said things he would not have dared say while Joffrey sat the throne with Cersei whispering in his ear.

If she had been expecting a soft, quiet private reunion with him, she was sorely mistaken, for he seemed even less whole than when he had left her. Someone, something had changed him for the worse and made him regret any kindness he had ever shown. Here was a man ready, expecting to die instead of a man determined to live just to spite the world that tried to rid itself of him at every turn.

He was absolutely right too; she did not know him now, nor had she ever and even though she wanted to now, he would not let her. So when the dead came for them, he would die without ever allowing Sansa to breach his walls. To an extent, she felt a twinge of jealousy and indignation that Arya was able to reach a hidden part of him when she had hated him for years for what he did to her friend, the butcher’s boy and yet the Hound would not allow Sansa even a glimpse of that same hidden part when Sansa had never hated him…

Not really.

Had she? Had she ever wished ill upon the Hound for the things he did because Joffrey commanded? She had resented the Hound for stopping her when she attempted to push Joffrey from the balcony, but she understood why he had stopped her. She had feared him when she thought she saw some sort of lust behind his eyes that evening he had cornered her in the corridor and demanded a song from her. But hate? Had she ever gone so far as to wish ill upon the man for his actions? No, she had only hated his inaction when Joffrey had her beaten and stripped half-naked before the Iron Throne. The one time he had done absolutely nothing.

It had taken Tyrion’s interference to force his hand. When Sansa had looked to the Hound, pleading with her sobs as she clutched what remained of her gown to her breast, he had looked away with disgust upon his face. She knew better than to believe that he was disgusted by her weakness, but by Joffrey’s obvious amusement at the situation. Still, he had not called the beating and humiliation to a halt. He had not done anything until Tyrion had placed himself well and properly between Sansa and Joffrey.

It occurred to Sansa after that the Hound might have feared for his own life in defying Joffrey just to save her dignity, but Joffrey would have had to order the entirety of the Kingsguard to arrest or execute the Hound to punish him for such an act and a cowardly boy king would not risk all the men who protected him just to teach a dog its place. So when the Hound left Joffrey to the rest of the Kingsguard and came back for her when the mob fell upon the royal procession, she had believed him to be _more_. When he offered to take her from King’s Landing and bring her home despite the risks to both of their lives, he had proved himself to be _more_.

But he wasn’t, not if all he could do was grudgingly face death as if he tired of living for the sole purpose of existing. Maybe once long ago he had secretly and silently asked Sansa to see him as a better man in his subtle actions on her behalf but his scorning of her attempts to do that very thing now were what deterred her from trying again.

She let him be, did not call for him again, and did not care to let her gaze linger on him when she would see him pass the courtyard or shovel stew into his mouth at the back of the Great Hall during supper. If he wanted to pass on into the next life as miserable and lonely as he had been throughout the entirety of this one, that was his decision and their days were too short for Sansa to spend any more of it on him.

Only, that plan drastically backfired on her with the arrival of the lions come once again into the home of wolves.

Unlike with the arrival of Daenerys, there was no great gathering in the courtyard to welcome Cersei and her army. Instead, those who had attended the war council parlay in King’s Landing some months ago now gathered along with a small handful of others, dismissing squires and milkmaids alike until only the dozen or so of them stood awaiting the royal carriage. At the forefront was Ser Jaime Lannister and his golden hand alongside Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, the latter of whom Sansa had quite forgotten about until this moment. Also riding with the Kingslayer was a man dressed in black much like Ser Bronn but with bulbous eyes that suggested madness or brilliance and what looked like a silvery-black sea creature stitched into his garb. Then came the escort, the Queensguard led by a man on foot twice the size of any other, a man Sansa had last seen hacking away at convicted criminals at the outer bailey of the Red Keep. Three men rode on each side of the carriage and dismounted as it came to a halt just past the gate.

There was a collective holding of one’s breath from Sansa and all in attendance who stood on her side: Jon, Daenerys, Tyrion, Brienne, Ser Jorah, Ser Davos, Lord Varys, the Unsullied commander, Grey Worm, Daenerys’s handmaiden Missandei, and at the back where he hoped not to be seen but was glaringly visible anyway was the Hound. In addition to them were also Arya, Bran, and Littlefinger. Sansa felt pride for them all as they watched stoic- faced as Cersei climbed down out of the carriage, flanked by a frail little man in a maester’s garb but without a maester’s chain. Instead he wore the Hand’s pin.

The giant man, Ser Jaime, and the man dressed in black fell in at her side as she strode forward, hands clasped gracefully in front of her. Though Daenerys and Jon stood at the center of the gathering, Cersei had eyes only for Sansa and on Sansa’s right, she felt rather than heard Brienne tighten her hold on her sword at Cersei’s approach.

Cersei did not wear the loose, flowing silk gowns of King’s Landing, nor was her golden hair nearly as long as it had last been. It only reached her shoulders now, shoulders that looked small and hunched underneath black and silver armored plating as if she expected to be fired upon with arrows at any moment. A black and emerald crown adorned her brow, an expression of seniority in a place where only her own people recognized her as queen.

Less than five feet stood between the two parties when Cersei pulled up short and had her Hand speak first in a quivering tone that was not born out of fear, but past wounds.

“Her Grace, Queen Cersei of the House Lannister, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, has made good on her promise to assist in the fight against the armies of the dead. Her soldiers will camp outside the walls and aid in battle preparations. She requires more sufficient boarding for her Queensguard and members of her small council as well as her brother, Ser Jaime Lannister.”

“She will find all accommodations prepared accordingly,” said Jon. “We understand the unease and the distrust between our parties, given recent and past events, but the only enemy we have now is the one about to break through the Wall. Your queen has the east wing of the castle set aside for her private use, though she has free reign of the castle. She is not a prisoner here, but a guest, and a welcome one. We only ask that past grudges and grievances be set aside if it concerns present company.”

“Her Grace will not be on speaking terms with traitors to her family,” said the Hand. “She has no words to trade with Sansa Bolton, Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Varys, or the one they call the Hound.”

“Yes, Stark, actually,” Sansa corrected, bristling at the impudence and pettiness of the woman before her. “My marriage to your queen’s brother, Lord Tyrion, was never annulled and so my forced marriage into the Bolton family was not legally binding in any sense.”

“Your marriage to Tyrion Lannister was also not consummated, and also not legally binding,” said the Hand quickly.

 _He’s a clever one,_ thought Sansa warily.

“Which would not make me a Lannister, but a Stark, unwed,” she replied.

“If my sister refuses to be on speaking terms with Sansa Stark for being a traitor to House Lannister, then she would also not be on speaking terms with me, yet she and I were the ones who came to the agreement that she would bring her armies into the North,” said Tyrion in Sansa’s defense and she had to smile to herself. A half man, but made of more valor and wisdom than any man twice his size.

“Sansa Stark still stands accused in the South of conspiring to murder the late King Joffrey, gods rest his soul—“

“And yet I murdered my own father,” said Tyrion loudly, talking over the Hand. “I am guilty of patricide, though my sister knows I had no part in her son’s murder.”

“Indeed,” said Littlefinger. “That was the work of Lady Olenna Tyrell who poured the poison into the king’s cup.”

“With some help, no doubt,” interjected Ser Jaime. “She had allies in helping her kill the king. And Lady Sansa’s untimely exit from the capital along with her escape into the North and unity with the Boltons puts you right in the middle of the conspiracy, Lord Baelish.”

“Past grievances,” said Jon, somewhat irritably. “Joffrey Baratheon is dead. Olenna Tyrell is dead, as is Ellaria Sand and Tywin Lannister. Allies and family on both sides, but we do not have time or resources to continue arguing about those long dead. They are not the ones who have to fight the army of wights; we are, and if we cannot set aside our differences here, it will be a clash of three armies on the battlefield and for every man killed, another wight adds to the dead’s army.”

“Her Grace understands this and will not be withdrawing from the fight, but she still has no words to exchange with—“

“I have never known Cersei Lannister to hold back from speaking her piece,” said Sansa despite Jon’s warning look. “She has the evidence and admittance from Lady Olenna’s own mouth that Joffrey was poisoned by her hand, yet she will continue to blame me for her son’s death until the day she dies. She will blame Lord Varys for serving a better queen and a better cause. She will blame Lord Baelish for abandoning a mad and sadistic king. And she will blame Sandor Clegane for doing the same when the fault lies with her for creating the monster that Joffrey became. She will hold that against all of us even when the wights are pounding on her door to slit her throat.”

“Sansa,” said Jon sharply.

“Sandor Clegane never betrayed her family,” continued Sansa as she ignored Jon. “No vows were spoken and thus, no vows were broken and I watched Joffrey Baratheon die from poisoned wine, not from the abandonment of his bodyguard. Not all the men in the world could have saved him once the poison reached his throat. And Joffrey fled the Blackwater in accompaniment of his Kingsguard long before Stannis Baratheon breached the walls, which was no fault of Sandor Clegane’s.”

“Do you vouch for him, then?” asked the Hand.

“I do. He has been pardoned by Queen Daenerys, whom the North recognizes as Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. He fights for the living now.”

“And Lord Varys?”

“Has been vouched for by myself and Lord Tyrion,” said Daenerys quickly. Lord Varys had the decency to look humbled and gave Daenerys a deep and graceful bow.

“And Lord Baelish?”

Sansa paused. Littlefinger had saved himself from the noose by coming to her aid in the Battle of the Bastards. He had sold her to the Boltons and given her an army in return. She had not forgiven him, but she could not hand him over to the Lannisters, and so she would have to lie, for the Knights of the Vale would return home if their lord was taken captive or cast out.

“Lord Baelish is an ally to House Stark,” said Sansa, choosing her words carefully. “Without him, we would all be standing out in the cold while the Bolton stubbornly and selfishly held the castle against us, thinking they could withstand winter and the dead themselves.”

“I am sure those of us who survive the war will sing songs of his greatness,” said the Hand, giving Sansa a sly look that told her quite clearly he did not believe her.

“You must be tired,” said Jon, seizing his chance to end the dispute. “The war council will convene tomorrow to discuss further battle plans but in the meantime, your men may use the moors to camp. Our armies are already at work digging the trenches and would appreciate assistance. And I will have my men escort you to the east wing.”

Jon called forth four Stark soldiers who pointed the way for Cersei and her party to follow. The giant who followed two paces behind her stopped before them as his blood-red eyes found the Hound in the back.

“Ser Gregor, attend me,” said Cersei, speaking at last.

Ser Gregor, the Mountain, the man felled by Oberyn Martell’s poisoned blade and reborn under a maester’s dark sorcery. Even as the mindless being he was now, the Mountain remembered his little brother and how much he hated him. All at once, Sansa felt the need to assign a guard to the Hound in an act of defense she did not understand.

Then the man in black passed in front of her, shooting her a wink and flicking his tongue out at her. Behind him, Ser Bronn gave a respectful bow of his head, which took her by surprise. When he had served Tyrion, Ser Bronn had been pleasant and kind to her, but she only believed he had done so because he had been paid well to do so. Now, he served Cersei and yet he had acknowledged her as befitting of her status.

“Are you alright, my lady?” asked Brienne once they had gone.

“Irked, perhaps, but otherwise unscathed,” Sansa assured her.

“My lady,” said Tyrion, cutting Jon off before the latter could reprimand her for upsetting Cersei. “I commend you on your quick wit and clever tongue. I am sure Cersei did not expect you to be the formidable opponent you are now, to see how much you have grown, but I would caution you against pressing her further. I would not put it past my sister to scheme while she is a guest in your house. She has dangerous allies with her this time, those who would willingly comply to hurt you: her Hand, Qyburn, the Mountain, Euron Greyjoy—“

“The one with the large eyes and unguarded tongue,” Sansa observed.

“Yes, and they are loyal to her. They would kill you during the battle or before and make it look like an accident.”

“Anything that happens to Lady Sansa from now until after the battle will be considered an act of attempted murder on Cersei’s part,” said Littlefinger To Sansa, he added. “She would not dare touch you or Queen Daenerys, or anyone held dear to either of you or she would find swift justice brought upon her.”

“I’m afraid, Lord Baelish, that with the Mountain at her side, she does _not_ fear that swift justice,” observed Lord Varys and it was no surprise to Sansa that he had been eavesdropping. “The Mountain is no longer a man, but something between the dead and the living, impervious to harm and a slave to her will.”

“Not entirely,” said Brienne. “He stopped long enough to look at the Hound.”

Yes, the Mountain had stopped long enough to look at the Hound and Sansa feared for the man’s safety now as well as her own. Littlefinger and Lord Varys were too clever and too skilled at evading harm to be high priorities on Cersei’s list of traitors to her family. Sansa and the Hound would be far easier targets.

“I want extra guards with my sister whenever she leaves her chambers,” said Jon.

“That will make it difficult to do much of anything if I am to be hoarded from place to place,” said Sansa. “I will choose my own protection and Lady Brienne is more than sufficient.”

“I am not saying that she is not,” said Jon respectfully. “But she and Sandor Clegane entered combat together and she took a vicious beating even though she was the victor. Against the Mountain, I do not like her chances.”

“I’ll guard Sansa,” offered Arya. “Cersei never so much as looked at me. I doubt she remembers my face and even if she did, I have others. With the help of Lord Varys and Lord Baelish, any plot she has to hurt Sansa will be heard and countered.”

With a stab of indignation that all these men and women who could efficiently protect themselves as well as her and yet Sansa could not defend herself, Sansa thought that perhaps it was time to ask Arya for private waterdancing lessons.

Her allies dispersed until only herself, Brienne, Littlefinger, and the Hound remained. Ignoring Littlefinger, Sansa strode through the mud to where the Hound was digging his dagger distractedly into the wall, watching the doors through which his brother had gone.

As Sansa stood before him, she saw a faint memory fade from his eyes. He had been a child once again, squirming and shrieking as his brother held his face to the fire. Every time he returned to his brother’s presence, that memory haunted him and hurt him. For a moment, he had been a boy and returned to his body to find that he was a very large man with a knife in hand. 

Sansa should have kept her distance, but he would not harm her.

“Will you walk with me in the godswood?” she asked him when she could see that he had completely returned to himself.

“Are you going to force more gratitude on me?”

“Not at all.”

With a brief nod, he beckoned her to lead the way.

“Lady Sansa, if I might have a word with you—“ began Littlefinger, but Sansa waved him off, knowing she would have to listen to whatever that word might be later.

The Hound followed her to the godswood gate and once again she had Brienne wait without, though this time Brienne did so without complaint. Apparently her sworn shield also felt that the Hound was trustworthy. He would not walk beside her, only behind as she led him to the weirwood tree at the heart of the godswood where they would not be overheard, not that she had sensitive information to divulge, but in a place where both Lord Varys and Littlefinger were present, there was no such thing as privacy.

She stopped before the weirwood tree, knelt, and whispered a quick prayer during which the Hound made a point of clearing his throat.

“Still pray to the gods, do you?”

“Only the old gods. The Seven never seemed to hear me. Do you?”

“I’ve spent the better part of the last year listening to Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr preach about their Lord of Light and I have fucking had enough of all the gods in general, so no, I don’t pray. Is that why you asked me to walk with you?”

“No, I asked you here because I know that reunion in the courtyard unsettled you. I did not know your brother would be with Cersei and that it will make the days ahead difficult for you—“

“Don’t see why it would. The fucker didn’t have much of a mind before they did whatever they did to him, but now he’s got even less of one, so he goes where he’s told and it’ll be by Cersei’s side when the battle comes. And that’s not where I’ll be.”

 _But I will be,_ thought Sansa desolately. _I will be wherever the women and children, infirmed and elderly are sent. If we all die, my last company will be Cersei and the Mountain and she will have him kill me well before the wights come and none will be able to stop her._

“Even with the army of the dead on our doorstep, she does not care to focus her attentions on the battle to come. She is a committed woman, dedicated to hurting those who she feel has wronged her. She brought her entire army to the North, not to help us, but to have reason for having all of her enemies in one place, to deal with us accordingly.”

“She’s welcome to try if she thinks she can, but she can’t,” said the Hound indifferently. “She can’t touch you or your scheming lords and her men will be too busy fighting the dead to do it for her. If she wants you dead, she’ll have to do it herself.”

“I knew she would call for her own justice, which was why I publically pardoned you,” said Sansa since she would rather not think about having to battle Cersei with her own two hands. “I claimed you for the North instead of as an independent man who serves none and now she cannot touch you either.”

“Not that she ever could. If she wants me dead after all this time, she’s still the dumb bitch she ever was while her cunt son was on the throne,” said the Hound without interest. “But I don’t need your pardon, girl. Her price has been on my head since the day I left King’s Landing and I still have my head without your help. Your fucking pardon hasn’t done me any favors but shown Cersei that I’m of some apparent value to you and that put a giant fucking target on my back. You still have no idea the consequences of your actions—“

“You are an ungrateful brute,” said Sansa bitingly. “And you enjoy mocking people for their kindness all these years later as you ever did, but you will not do so to me, do you understand? I will not be told by you or any other man that I do not know the ways of the world or that my kindness is a mask for stupidity. I will _not_ hear it, Sandor Clegane. I am not the stupid child you knew, nor am I helpless and only made of gentle words.”

“Aren’t you?” he challenged. “The same little bird with a sharper tune to sing and less revealing clothes to wear.”

Sansa struck him which left her hand stinging far more than it likely did his face, but his scalding look told her that she had shocked him with her actions.

“Don’t you dare, not when you haven’t the slightest idea what happened to make me this way, not when you don’t know…you know nothing. You know _nothing_ , so do not stand there and accuse me of being a weak simpleton. If you cannot accept my kindness as an extension of my friendship when I do not hand that out lightly, then you may see yourself out, but know that this is the last time. If you turn away from me now, I will not let you back in. I have no more time or room to waste on those who would go to the grave in ungrateful loneliness.”

The Hound’s face bore the outline of her hand, a ruddy red mark on the burned side. Now they were on even ground. He had grabbed her once in the corridors of King’s Landing, pinching hard enough to leave enormous finger-sized bruises on her and for no good reason other than to shake some sense into her, to demand that she not lie to him. And she had left a mark on him, one delivered with intent to scold him, reprimand him for being so foul-tempered and cruel.

He lifted his hand and she thought fleetingly that he meant to grab her throat. She flinched away from him, feeling her eyes brim with tears at this unwilling expression of weakness.

“You think I’m going to hit you back, girl?” he asked in a tone she could almost mistake for being wounded, as if he was abhorred by the very idea that he could do such a thing to her. “The only Kingsguard to never raise a hand against you and you think _now_ I finally would?”

“I do not know if you would. I don’t know you,” Sansa reminded him. He scowled at her to have his own words turned against him, but he had made it quite clear that the man who he had been at one time was not the man he was now and that she should not presume to think that she had ever known him. He had never done more than give her a hard shake, but he had turned lawless which often made a man forget to pull his hand short when it came to striking a woman.

“I’m not the sort of whoreson that goes around hitting little girls…or women,” said the Hound.

“Arya would come to a different conclusion with you on that,” said Sansa boldly.

“She tried to stab me. She earned that.”

“After you goaded her into it.”

“Do you _want_ me to hit you?”

What sort of question was that? Of course she did not want him to hit her, only for him to admit that he was prone to striking out, the same as any other, and therefore, she had cause to fear him. She had been far too used to the hand of a Kingsguard across her face, then Ramsay’s hand to replace them. She was not used to a man of the Hound’s reputation being gentle with her.

“I have come to expect that sort of behavior from men,” she told him.

The Hound pointed at her collar, his fingertip just inches from her skin.

“He was the one who made you this way,” he said, and she knew he was pointing at the scars she tried so hard to conceal, the ugly white lines of Ramsay’s fingernails raking down the side of her neck as he violated her.

She raised a hand to cover them but the Hound stopped her, pushing it away and holding it at her side.

“You let them see it. Let them look at it. If you hide it, you’re telling them that you’re ashamed of it and afraid of it. What they can say about you can’t hurt you anymore than the scars did when you got them. Let them fucking look.”

Then his hands were at her collar, fingertips touching the tips of the scars as they peeked out from underneath the cloth to gauge their depth and their severity. He would know how much they hurt, how they had been delivered, how old they were. He was a man of scars and little else.

“The bastard meant for it to be painful, but not lethal,” he observed as he pulled down her collar ever so slightly, but when she said nothing, he prompted, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“He meant for everything to be painful. He enjoyed it that way,” said Sansa plainly.

“That’s not something you should ever be ashamed of. You survived that and I’m guessing he didn’t. Don’t hide from your victory, little bird.”

“I do not hide from it. I display my victory proudly. This castle bears my house sigil because I refused to allow the flayed man to hang one more second from its walls.”

She saw recognition come to him and realized with a dull pang that he did not know. As a lawless man traveling the countryside in the dead of winter with no company but that of the Brotherhood, he would not have heard word of her marriage to Ramsay Bolton, nor her escape and eventual victory against the Bolton army and her reclaiming of the castle. She thought that he had only avoided calling Ramsay by name for her sake, but until this moment, he had not known that it was Ramsay himself who had left the scars upon her and within her. He had been there with Arya when the Boltons betrayed the Starks at the Twins and instead of turning her over to Walder Frey, he had taken her from the massacre, saved her from a worse fate. He knew the treachery and torture the Boltons were infamous for. But he must have not been paying attention when Cersei’s Hand called Sansa a Bolton, for all of this was news to him, and devastating news at that.

“How did a Bolton get to you?” he asked after a time.

“By an unfortunate series of events that I would rather not discuss. But the Boltons are dead, their house ended, and I am still here. I had my victory and I do not hide my scars out of fear of what others might say. I hide them so I am not reminded daily of what was done to me. The less of Ramsay Bolton’s work I see, the less I remember—and I do not want to remember.”

He could understand that, surely. The Hound would know better than anyone how he would trade almost anything to forget the pain, the sensation of being hurt and being unable to do anything to stop it.

The Hound let his hands fall away from her and she realized only then that she had been holding her breath.

“I once had a little bird who never would have been able to look me in the face when saying that. She turned into something different, didn’t she?”

Was he asking her or telling her?

“She did, but not by choice. A wounded wolf does what it can to survive until the pack returns. And the pack is strong now. Strong and growing larger.”

It was an invitation to him, a gesture that surprised her when moments ago she had been ready to scream at him after delivering her slap. He seemed apologetic enough, even if he did not say the words. His acknowledgment that she was not a helpless little girl was the reassurance she needed to see that she could chip away at the layers of distrust he had built up.

She left him there to his own devices, hearing nothing but the whispering of her cloak over the light snow.

Littlefinger and Brienne both awaited her as she emerged from the godswood and Littlefinger fell into step with her, spouting out the beginnings of a rehearsed speech.

“I would advise against being caught alone with the Hound in the future—“

“I was not caught alone with him. I knowingly and willingly asked him to follow me and he did not touch me, not that he ever would,” lied Sansa. It mattered not and was of no concern to anyone that the Hound had put his hands on her in the most delicate way possible. She had expected another hard shake, perhaps not as bruising as last time, but just as strong. Instead she received a gentle, almost fearful caress and pride in his voice on her behalf. Pride that she had bested the man who had hurt her as the Hound was yet unable to do to the man who had hurt him. Pride that she was more wolf now than little bird.

Still his little bird, he had said. _His_ little bird, as if he had some ownership over her, as if she belonged to him.

“As your counselor and consultant, Lady Sansa—“

“As Lord of the Vale in command of the armies I need, your place is here only to be the gathering point of a great portion of those armies. I do not seek counsel from you, Lord Baelish, especially not on a man I have told you once before I trust with my life. When I say to you that I will hear no more of your unease and distrust of him, I will hear no more. What I say to him is not your concern and if I had felt the need for protection against him, I would have asked Brienne to come inside. _She_ trusts him, and her trust is not easily won.”

“I do not wish to see you hurt again, my lady,” said Littlefinger.

“You never did,” snapped Sansa. “You fled before you could see me hurt, but I have developed tougher skin to break since then and I will not be hurt by any man again, least of all Sandor Clegane.”

“I do not mean physically, my lady. My concern is always for your well-being, but it is not for your physical safety I speak of just now.”

The other safety he spoke of dealt in what Sansa did not have to give. She could not give another man her love, not after Ramsay, but she did not seek to offer such a thing to the Hound. She offered friendship, the chance to belong to the people he had worked so hard—wittingly or not—to save. She had claimed him for the North and even if he would not accept it, he was now a Northman and would die a Northman if the battle took him. Her actions had set in motion a friendship that should have been formed long ago and the misgivings Littlefinger had were nothing but jealous whisperings.

“That is the last of it, Lord Baelish. Do not breach the subject again.”

She knew he would have one last word: advice, a warning, something to second-guess herself, but she was not prepared for what he had to say, for she had not cared to notice the signs.

“You say that you are not in danger of what I may fear, but even if you are heavily set against such a thing happening, you cannot prevent it from coming into being. You have not noticed how he has strategically pushed you away just enough so that he may watch you from a distance. He knows you are a woman now and he knows that you sympathize with the broken, the unwanted, a category that he falls into. He knows how to play on your sympathies to get what he wants because he is a man, and not the first man to want you. I know you know this, for this was not the first time he has looked at you in such a way.”

“In what way?” asked Sansa, not understanding how Littlefinger could already have known what happened in the godswood.

“The way he is looking at you now.”

Sansa turned her head quickly enough to give herself a crick in her neck to see the Hound standing on the threshold to the godswood, watching her with—with _longing_ behind his eyes. She knew that look well, having seen it on the faces of many men at court, but it did not have the meanness of those many men. It was a sorrowful longing, one of acceptance in seeing something he wanted and knew he could not have. Not at all the same look as Littlefinger’s, a man who had not yet had her but desperately wanted her. Not like Ramsay who could never get his fill of hurting her. No, the Hound knew long ago that she was unobtainable and therefore, he had not done anything to tempt himself.

She did not think that this sudden interest from Sandor Clegane was something she would have to deal with and was at a loss in how to deal with it. Her goal had only been to make a friend in him, not pity his affection for her. 

In one thing, however, Littlefinger was absolutely right, and that was that the Hound knew his gruffness would push her away, as would his gentle touch bring her back. Sandor Clegane was a player in this game, the same as all of them.


	3. The Price of Living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a long absence for me, dear friends. I did warn that this story would be much longer in the making than the last, but I didn’t anticipate that I would get hit by life mowing me over like a train. I put off posting because I would prefer to wait and deliver a solid chapter than to rush and hand out a steaming pile of horseshit. I also have not been in the right mindset to embody these characters and I absolutely want to do them justice, not just write for the hell of it and make it up as I go along. I have an outline and several drafts of chapters; it’s just filling in the in-betweens that I’m having trouble with, as always. Thank you to those of you who are still here. I promise that I will never give up on this story, so no worries about me abandoning it in case of future long-term absences. I just want to give you all the best I can.

**BRONN**

More of his life had been spent bedding down in the dirt than on a proper feather mattress, but in recent years his arse had grown accustomed to being pampered and so the last month of travel into increasingly deteriorating weather had made him ever so grateful for a mattress once again. It was only his bad luck that he had to share the room with a hundred other men, mostly Stark soldiers, Stark supporters, and Stark arse-kissers. Rooms for the Lannister well-to-do’s were limited in the wing the Starks had provided and so Bronn, with lower ranking than Cersei and Jaime Lannister, the Hand, the Kingsguard, and the queen’s handmaidens, was left to find a spare bunk along with a few other Lannister soldiers.

His presence, however, did not garner any distrustful looks from the men who shared the barracks. Perhaps because he was not dressed in Lannister garb or perhaps his reputation preceded him and he held some respect among them as a lowlife who had simply been struck by luck. Or—and he strongly suspected this was the case—the dwarf lord had spoken out on his behalf to the men. If the latter was true, he wasn’t one to complain. A good scrap was always welcome, but only when it involved worthy opponents and he knew it would be frowned upon when every individual still panting out breath was invaluable.

He had hardly begun to settle into his bunk when one of the Queensguard—he could never tell which one until they spoke, they all dressed the bloody same—came to escort him to the queen herself.

“Her Grace commands that you attend her immediately,” said Ser Preston Greenfield with distaste. As all of his brethren did, the knight despised Bronn for earning a knighthood despite his humble beginnings and weaseling his way into the rank of battlefield commander.

“Does she, now? She can’t wait for me to find a decent meal?”

“ _Now_ ,” warned Ser Preston.

Swinging his legs back off his bunk not five seconds after he had put them up, Bronn gave a dramatic sigh for Ser Preston’s benefit and followed behind him to wherever Cersei had holed herself up. She was strategically placed in a center room with Ser Jaime’s quarters on one side and Qyburn’s on the other at the end of the corridor where the nearest escape route was straight out the window and fifty feet down. Her Queensguard stood at attendance outside apart from the big fucker who was undoubtedly _in_ side. Their mouths turned down as one at Bronn’s approach, not that he cared.

Ser Preston pounded a chainmailed fist on the door. “Ser Bronn, as requested, Your Grace.”

“Enter,” came Cersei’s bored drawl.

The knight opened the door for Bronn and then slammed it behind him.

Inside, the room had already been stripped of anything that might resemble a Stark or Targaryen and adorned in Lannister colors to give Cersei all the comforts of home. As there was no feast to welcome her—not that she or anyone else had expected one-- she had had food brought to her quarters, carried in her private stores from King’s Landing and prepared by her handmaidens. She did not trust that her food would go unpoisoned here. 

She sat beside the spread, nibbling daintily on a buttered piece of toasted bread with her standard goblet of wine in hand. Privately, Bronn thought that very irresponsible of her to be drinking when her belly was already starting to show. Perhaps that was why her first whelp came out such a cunt—the wine addled his brains in the womb. Behind her stood the giant, stone-still, blood-red eyes watching Bronn hungrily as if he would like nothing more than to crush his skull out of sheer boredom (it wasn’t personal; Bronn knew Ser Gregor looked at everyone like that).

“I have no great speech prepared for you on my expectations for the battle, nor do I need to stress the fact that you should know that your duties have not changed since our departure from King’s Landing,” said Cersei crisply.

Bronn, who was apparently supposed to agree, gave a nod.

“We are in a place of enemies and spies. I do not trust these walls any more than I trust to whom they belong. You will find your orders here.”

She held up a piece of parchment to him that was written in her neat, looped hand. He crossed the room to her, wary of the eight foot tall brute standing over her like a bird of prey as she ate, but prepared to cut Bronn in half at the waist if he so much as farted in her direction. Bronn stopped as far away from Cersei as he dared, reached out to take the parchment, and held it up to the firelight. He read it once, read it again, and then Cersei snatched it out of his hands, tossing it into the crackling flames in the hearth.

“I should hope you understand perfectly and are not about to bore me with questions or protests,” said Cersei, now with full underlying threat in her tone.

“Understood perfectly, Your Grace,” said Bronn quickly as his mind reeled and his heart sank. It was an order he had been given many times, something he had been paid once to do, something he excelled at, something he took pleasure in—had it been almost anyone else. This…this would be difficult if damn near impossible and not for the first time, he felt an inkling of a conscience telling him he had better rethink his situation.

“Go, then,” the queen ordered, and Bronn bowed himself out, not even stopping to poke fun at the Queensguard outside as he reread the message over and over in his mind.

 _Fuck her and fuck her twice, grudge-holding, spiteful bitch_.

They had not discussed his duties at length before leaving King’s Landing, but he knew them to be the same as ever, with some additions considering the enemy they were about to face—the dead one, anyway. Protect Ser Jaime on the field, hold his tongue in the presence of wine and women, inspire the men to die for their queen, fall upon his sword or the swords of the dead to protect Cersei, do not fraternize with Starks and Targaryens. _This_ was not on that list of duties they had discussed and he did not have the time or the means to do such a thing.

What did Cersei expect, that he could casually walk away from the battle to go find his target and make it look like a casualty of war? She was ruthless and wiley, but stupid. She knew that this order would cost Bronn his life, if the battle didn’t claim it first—and battle would be the only opportunity to do as instructed, for if he tried before, chaos would erupt within the walls, shouts of treachery, betrayal, utter mayhem as sides clashed before the dead even reached them.

 _During the battle_ , she had written, and signed his own death warrant as she flourished the crossing of her “t”s. During the fucking battle.

 _But_ , his brain reminded him, _no one will ever know if you carried out the order or not because they’ll all be fucking dead._

And wasn’t that an encouraging note to help him sleep tonight.

His last meal had been a dry heel of bread on horseback early that morning and so he asked a passing maid where he might find the Great Hall as he continued to inwardly sulk over his misfortune and secretly wish he had let Lady Arryn pitch the half-lord through the Moon Door. If he had, Bronn would never have come to this mess of shite.

The Great Hall was not exceptionally large, a smaller hall than the like belonging to lesser lords, but Bronn did not require festive decorations and the luxuries of lengthy space to eat a simple meal. He needed only a mug of ale, a stool for his arse—and company, it would seem, for the Half-Lord Tyrion beckoned to him from the end of a table stretching the length of the hall.

If Bronn didn’t know any better, he would have said that Tyrion had been waiting for him, but it was still a bold move when Cersei would most likely be having Bronn followed to listen in on his every conversation. Tyrion could have summoned him as he used to do, but somehow, Bronn suspected that the little lord wanted a public interaction, perhaps to give Cersei’s spies nothing but hearty banter to report back to the queen. Still, it was rather impressive that the Hand of the Dragon Queen could sup with commoners instead of taking the High Table as the lords and ladies of Winterfell were. Bronn doubted that the Dragon Queen would have approved of this.

As he went to pull up a bench beside his one-time friend he noted that Lady Sansa Stark and Lord Petyr Baelish were seated at the High Table in muted but nevertheless engaging conversation with the young man in the wheeled chair Bronn had spotted in the courtyard earlier. The young man was dark of hair and eyes, but the shape of his face looked very much like Lady Sansa’s and Bronn could see similarities between the two the longer he stared. He did not know much about the Stark line, nor did he care to find out, for in all the time he was charged with protecting Lady Sansa, her family never came into conversation (a painful thing to remember, he supposed). But this boy could well be her brother—her true brother.

The raven eyes snapped upward, settling directly on Bronn with such intensity that he stopped dead in his approach to Tyrion’s table, glued where he stood as he felt a stirring in his head. He did not care for the boy’s gaze, but he could almost hear that same boy’s voice in his head despite not knowing the sound of that voice. He could not make out words, but he did hear a voice that was not his own neutral conscience talking to him.

The eyes continued to bore into him, round, unblinking, penetrating…

A sharp stab in his temple and he saw a figure dressed in black leather with icy, almost transparent skin approaching him with no hurry almost as if it knew he could not run. A frozen jagged crown was engrained in the figure’s brow and its eyes—gods, its _eyes_ —were holding Bronn in place. It took an enormous weapon from a scabbard on its back and pointed it at Bronn, marking him. Fire rose on all sides, bodies piled high around him, sweat dripped from his knuckles as he tried to find strength to lift his sword but he was so fucking _cold_.

The figure’s name came to him, whispered on the wind with the voice that was not his.

_The Night King._

His lungs took in piercingly frigid air and froze. His heart should have been beating within his chest like a drummer upon its instrument as it sounded the rally in battle, but instead it was barely thumping, dying from the inside out like the rest of him.

 _Help me_ , his thoughts cried out to anyone, anything that might be listening. The gods he did not believe in left his pleas unanswered. The friends he did not have did not come to his aid.

Alone. As he had lived, so would he die.

And he was afraid.

Then he was amid subdued chatter and clanking goblets and saw those raven eyes looking once more upon him. He didn’t wait, but broke the spell that held him in place, not trusting this black magic sort of shite he had just witnessed. In a world of wights, direwolves, and dragons, he could not put the hallucination down to lack of sleep for he had gone days without sleep before and his mind had never conjured such horrifying images as what he had just seen.

Who the fuck was that boy in the wheeled chair and what in seven hells had he done?

“Ser Bronn, have you been sampling the mulled wine already?” asked Tyrion in welcome as Bronn stumbled onto the bench, blinking furiously and trying to form some semblance of normalcy by grasping the empty tankard in front of him. As a man not often unhinged, he needed to uphold that reputation and tried to pass off his drunken staggering as nothing more than a dark-humored jab.

“Got a whiff of you again, my friend. I’d forgotten how bad you smelled again and it near as not took me feet from under me.”

“I bathed regularly in all the time you’ve known me,” said Tyrion. “While I’ve never once seen or smelled a hint of lye soap within fifteen feet of you.”

It was here that Bronn discovered that they were a supper company of three, for the enormous woman who now guarded Lady Sansa was seated with them and scowling down at him from across the table.

“Lady Brienne,” greeted Bronn. “Keeping well, I see. Serving the Starks?”

“I don’t serve the Starks,” said Lady Brienne bitingly. “I fulfilled my promise to Ser Jaime to find Sansa Stark and now I serve her as her sworn shield.”

“Bit far away from the High Table to be of much good to her if someone rushed her right this moment to make a halfway decent stab at her though, aren’t you?” Bronn pointed out, noting the distance between the sworn shield and her charge and he thought fleetingly that Lady Sansa used to be _his_ charge.

“Lady Sansa has dismissed me for the evening, but she is not alone and not unprotected, I do not take my duty lightly, ser,” said Lady Brienne.

Bronn leaned sideways to use the woman’s form to block the boy in the wheeled chair from view as he saw still only Lady Sansa and Lord Baelish seated at the High Table with no one else in sight or reach.

“Are you suggesting Lord Baelish is her protector in place of you? I believed there were dragons before I saw them but _that_ , I do not believe, not one bit.”

Lady Brienne did not elaborate as she helped herself to a portion of the meat pie placed before them by a serving girl. Bronn took a generous helping himself when she had finished, licking gravy from his fingertip as he once more scanned the High Table and wondered who it was that protected Lady Sansa when Lady Brienne did not.

“Mormont,” called Tyrion, gesturing for a knight with thinning golden hair to join them. The man had what Bronn might call a permanently saddened expression but at the moment, it was hidden well behind a glare directed at Bronn himself.

He hadn’t been mistaken when he thought that he had been accepted by the men who served the Starks in the barracks; he had only misjudged from where the resentment would come from. It was not the lowborns that despised him, but those who found themselves in similar ranks as he. 

“Join us,” Tyrion invited, but the knight shook his head.

“Another time, perhaps.”

“You lot are all lookin’ at me like I personally took a shit in your helmets,” Bronn goaded. “Is it the face? I know it’s not the best to look at it, but it’s no cause to look at me the way you have been.”

“Your face has nothing to do with it, ser. I dislike you on principle,” said the knight, turning to go.

“No, Mormont, come sit. Ser Bronn is an old friend, and the reason I survived long enough to be kidnapped by you.”

Tyrion patted the stool beside him and the knight sank into it somewhat reluctantly, still eyeing Bronn distrustfully, not that Bronn gave a rat’s arse. Better and more powerful men than this knight looked down on him and they were dead now while Bronn was serving the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Though he had to remind himself that his association with the Head Bitch was most likely the reason the knight didn’t like him on principle. If Bronn had shown up serving Tyrion, he had no doubt that the knight would have disliked him only slightly less.

“Don’t be troubled by the glower. Ser Jorah Mormont is not known for his genial company, but a more faithful and loyal sworn shield you could not find,” said Tyrion.

“I would wager against that,” said Lady Brienne.

“Forgive me, my lady, you do the title a great service.”

“And what about me?’ jested Bronn.

“You never said any vows and were never a sworn shield to anyone. I paid you to protect me and Lady Sansa and that was within the castle walls, not in the wildernesses of Essos or on the roads to Winterfell.”

“Being paid to do something takes away the merit of the act,” said Mormont.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be better at it than you, or anyone else for that matter. You don’t have to do somethin’ for free to be experienced,” Bronn reasoned. 

“No rebuttal, just eat,” said Tyrion, pressing a bowl of the meat pie on Mormont to cut him off. “It doesn’t matter if you were paid or not to protect. To an inexperienced fighter like me, you all have done your jobs well several times over, otherwise Queen Daenerys, Lady Sansa, and I would not be here to form the alliance to fight the dead. It was not chance that brought us together. The wildlings formed a bond with a man who swore to protect their people. The Unsullied fight for the woman who liberated them and gave their lives purpose. Even Sandor Clegane has come to fight for us because of the road he put himself on to return Arya Stark to her mother while Lady Catelyn lived. Granted, Clegane initially sought to use Arya Stark to fetch himself a pretty penny for his efforts, but—“

“You’re going to include the fucking Hound in the same category as the rest of us?” asked Bronn. “Big and brutal he may be, but he hasn’t got the brains to fill a poor man’s teaspoon. A warrior, but one who does what he’s told. And a right sullen toerag, he is.”

“Leave him be,” said Ser Jorah suddenly, setting his wooden spoon down. “An agreeable man he might not be, but he does value human life.”

“You must be talking about some other ugly half-faced fucker because the Hound didn’t think twice or give two shits about splitting a man in half if it got him home to a flagon of wine faster. I drank with ‘im. He’s one mean fucker.”

“And I fought with him,” said the knight. “A man shows you who he truly is, unguarded and unaware when he is in battle. He valued gold once, I’m certain, but beyond the Wall, with nothing and no one to call friend, he placed himself in harm’s way to save all of us several times. He could have left us to our fates, but his first instinct was to come to our aid. A man cannot feign concern for his fellow man when the sweat and blood falls heavily on the battlefield and each second is precious.”

“Well, I was in a battle with the man meself and I saw ‘im shove another poor bastard right into a Baratheon soldier sword at the Blackwater. The blood and sweat fell heavily then and when out came the fire, he left his men to die outside the gates. You and I must know two separate Hounds, Mormont, because the fucker I know only did as he was told with no independent thought unless fire came between him and his orders. He’s known in King’s Landing as a deserter and there’s still a price on his head—five hundred gold dragons last I heard.”

“He was pardoned by Lady Sansa and Queen Daenerys,” said Lady Brienne. “Pardoned of anything and everything he did whilst serving the Lannisters.”

“I wonder, would the Dragon Queen give me a pardon for everything _I’ve_ done whilst serving the Lannisters?” asked Bronn in mock thought. “I should bloody well think so, considerin’ this one would be a splatter on the Eyrie mountainside if I didn’t choose right then and there to serve the Lannisters.” He clinked his tankard against Tyrion’s.

“Not if I have my say,” Mormont growled into his bowl.

“Ser Jorah doesn’t believe in leniency for any individual who stands against his queen,” said Tyrion. “Against _our_ queen.”

“Well, that’s hardly fair, is it? I found meself in Cersei’s company because this little fucker stood up to her cunt son and made a name for ‘imself in a bad way, so when he tucked tail and fled to Essos like any smart man would, I couldn’t very well follow ‘im on account of me not knowing where the fuck he’d gone and I wasn’t about to tell Cersei I liked her murderous little brother better, so I kept me mouth shut and got paid for it. Got paid to continue teachin’ the one-handed Lannister to fight, got paid to fight Cersei’s fights, and had no reason to leave until your queen brought news of the dead—“

“ _The_ queen,” the knight corrected with an even deeper scowl.

“Fine, _the_ queen.”

“He won’t fight you on that,” Tyrion assured Mormont. “He has no loyalty to kings or queens, only the one who carries the biggest purse.”

“Then he will die quickly when the dead come,” said Lady Brienne. “A man who has nothing to fight for but himself and the promise of a weighty pocket will not live long.”

“I’ve known men who had naught but themselves in this miserable world and they won every fight because their love of living was greater than their fear of dying. I think of meself as that sort of man.”

“You’ll die, all the same," said Mormont.

Bronn cocked his head sideways to take in the knight’s full appearance once again from the tip of his balding head to the hands grasped around his bowl. He was the sort of man who was quick to defend a woman’s honor, and in a damned foolish way. A man who could be goaded into a fight to defend that honor because it was the noble thing to do. And stupid.

To Jorah Mormont, Bronn was scum because when the cards were shuffled in this game of chance, Bronn fell on the opposite side from Mormont’s beloved queen, and so Bronn was not a man to be trusted, but to be reviled because of fate, not choice. 

“You don’t like me,” Bronn acknowledged, “But you’re being a mite harsh because I served a different queen and I'm not willing to die for ‘er. We can’t all be as stupid as you and when the dead come, the man who loves living will be the one left standin', not the man who’d rather fuck his queen.”

He had found the knight’s weak spot and it was not in the insult to his pride, but the fact that others believed fighting and dying for one’s queen was a foolhardy and ultimately rewardless thing to do. In the end, though, this man would die for his queen because her life meant more to him than his own. And Bronn would feel only slightly sorry for him as he stood over the man’s grave.

He knew he had baited Mormont and expected a tussle in which he would see for himself just how worthy of being this dragon queen’s sword shield he actually was, but as luck would have it, the big burnt-faced fucker never let it come to blows. The Hound dug his paws into Mormont’s shoulder, rooting him in his seat and giving the knight no option to rise to the bait. He looked down at Mormont and a brief, almost nonexistent moment of understanding passed between the two of them.

That was definitely not the Hound Bronn knew—or had known. _His_ Hound cared for no man other than himself and only had the slightest softness toward the girl who was now the Lady of Winterfell. The Hound did not share any human connection or anything that might be mistaken as friendship with another man. But _this_ Hound was something more.

“Have you seen the dead, sellsword?” asked the Hound with no discernible emotion, no greeting or acknowledgment that he had once shared words and wine with Bronn.

“Can’t say that I have,” replied Bronn.

“Have you seen the Night King?”

Bronn clutched a hand to his temple as the vision struck him again of the blue-skinned figure stalking toward him on an empty, fiery battlefield. The spiked crown stood out clearer this time, glinting and reflecting the walls of flame around it.

And the disembodied voice warned again, _The Night King_.

“Have you?” prompted the Hound’s voice, pulling Bronn back to the present and temporary safety of the Great Hall.

 _Yes, I have now_.

“No,” he said.

“Then you don’t know shit. You haven’t seen ‘em, you don’t know what you’ll think or feel or do until you actually see ‘em with your own eyes. If you’ve never shit yourself, you will when you see how many there are. If you’ve never cried for your mother, you will when you smell them. You and every other man who loves life will forget what it’s like to live when you hear them coming. Fuck you for thinking you’re braver than the rest of us. You’re no different, no braver, no better. You’ll die, just like the rest of us.”

The Hound let go of Mormont’s shoulder, causing the latter to wince where there would be a hand-shaped bruise beneath the pauldron, and then with a glance toward the High Table, skulked off as quietly as he had come.

“He’s never had a sense of humor,” said Bronn to fill the silence, but no one tried to prove the Hound wrong.

“He’s right,” said Tyrion.

“What would you know? You haven’t seen ‘em either,” Bronn accused, though he had no way of knowing for certain.

“I saw one, the one we showed to Cersei to convince her that the threat is real,” said Tyrion somewhat indignantly.

“You saw one, but you didn’t see—as the big fucker put it— _them_.”

“But I have,” said Mormont. “Jon Snow, Beric Dondarrion, Tormund Giantsbane, the lad Gendry, Queen Daenerys, and myself. We have seen the dead and though perhaps in not as bleak of terms, we have come to the same conclusion as Sandor Clegane: we will all die of the same cause, one way or another. It is only a matter of lasting long enough to take our enemy with us.”

Bronn had never known Tyrion to pass up an opportunity to make light of a situation but he did not do so now, nodding gravely almost to himself as if he, too, had accepted his fate. Mormont and Lady Brienne both stared dismally into their tankards and Bronn shook his head, taking his turn to be disgusted by the blatant acceptance.

“A right lot of depressing wankers you are. Given up before the fight’s begun, have you?”

“It is far easier to go to one’s death expecting to die than hoping to live,” said Mormont.

Wondering what shite book he had read that from, Bronn was about to counter that disheartening statement when he saw Lady Sansa take her leave of both Lord Baelish and the young man in the wheeled chair. She left the hall unaccompanied, unprotected.

It could not be that easy. And she would not be that stupid to walk out in full view with Cersei on the prowl.

Bronn did not bother excusing himself from his dreary companions, scoffing at their downcast faces as he crossed the hall and left through the door that he knew would lead down to the courtyard where Lady Sansa would have to cross if she had a mind to return to her quarters or indeed, go almost anywhere else. He felt those raven eyes on the back of his head as he went, but he dared not stop, hurrying out into the light snowfall where the last of the horses were being stabled for the night. Making himself look busy at the well just off the center of the courtyard, he saw her coming, walking deliberately but with her gaze elsewhere, lost in thought.

Such a stupid thing to do when Cersei wanted her dead…

_During the battle._

Bronn stepped forward, effectively blocking her path and startling her.

“Ser Bronn,” said greeted cordially, though he could see with some hesitation. They had known each other once, not well, but well enough for her to trust that he meant her no harm. Too much time had passed since then, though. He knew this woman no more and she trusted him no longer.

“M’lady,” said Bronn.

She had grown another inch or two in her absence and now stood high enough that he did not need to tilt his chin down to look at her. There was a fullness to her face of coming into womanhood, but it was still the uncertain eyes of a child that looked back at him. A child who had seen worse things and more and had only aged, not grown.

Yet, she looked to be (and from what he heard, _been_ ) a more capable ruler than her former betrothed had ever been. Her time as the Lannister’s captive had not stamped out the goodness in her. She had pardoned the Hound despite the part he played in imprisoning her. She had rid herself of not one, but two abusive captors. And she had accepted the viper that knew her scent well back into her home. Either a brave young woman or a foolish one.

“I trust I will see you during the war council meeting on the morrow,” she said with some strain.

This was the first Bronn was hearing of a war council. Cersei thought it more important that he receive his shadow work orders than to bring him into the know of strategic meetings.

“She didn’t tell you,” guessed Lady Sansa with a slight roll to her eyes. “News was sent to her just after her arrival that the war council is to convene tomorrow morning. I would see any and all experienced battlefield commanders there, even if Cersei does not extend the invitation to you.”

Most definitely a foolish girl.

“If m’lady summons me, I shall be there,” Bronn assured her.

“Very good, ser. Do excuse me, I must attend my evening prayers.”

She stepped nimbly around him and headed toward the godswood.

The girl he had known was a quiet, reserved one. Prone to tears and melancholy and little else. But she had stopped praying long before her flight from King’s Landing, Bronn remembered that much about her. She was going there alone for reasons unexplained, doing the very thing he wished she would not do so as not to give him an excuse to catch her alone. 

Damn the bitch who gave him his orders and damn the girl for making them too easy to carry out.

His hand was on his dirk, preparing, and his heart was beating a speeding cadence in his chest, so different from the dying beat he had felt as he stood alone on the battlefield facing the blue-skinned terror.

 _The Night King_ , the voice had said. And something else, something more…

_Wait._

Wait.

Seven hells, that boy knew. He knew what Bronn had been charged with and had not sounded the alarm or called for Bronn’s arrest or execution. Somehow, that boy knew the words Cersei had written on the parchment she condemned to the flame after to destroy all evidence. The boy knew and had been at the High Table, waiting for Bronn to give him pause so that he would stay his hand at this precise moment.

 _Wait_.

His hand was still on his weapon as he watched the red hair cascading down Lady Sansa’s shoulders bounce with every footstep she took away from him.

He had an ill feeling in his stomach at seeing her unarmed despite knowing she most likely had never wielded a weapon in her life. And whatever Lady Brienne had meant when she said that Lady Sansa was not alone, it did not apply now. If Bronn were a crueler man, Lady Sansa’s lack of protection could very well have been her undoing this night.

“M’lady,” he called after her and slid through the mud to approach her once more. He unbuckled the dirk at his belt and folded the wrapping around the sheath, holding it out to her.

“I would see you arm yourself.”

His gesture confused her, he could see, for she lifted her hand to accept the gift, but then seemed to rethink her situation and withdrew. “A thoughtful notion, ser, but this is simply forged steel and of no use to me in the fight against the dead.”

“It’s not _for_ the dead,” said Bronn pointedly in as low of a voice as he could.

_The fuck is wrong with you? Might as well tell her what was written on that slip of parchment._

“I know this to be your favored weapon, ser, and so I wish for you to keep it. But to ease your mind and to take your words to heart, I will find a concealable weapon to arm myself with. I thank you for your concern.” She pressed the dirk back at him with an uncertain smile and once again left him standing in the snow.

Bronn watched a young woman dressed in the Northern men’s style of clothing join Lady Sansa at the entrance to the godswood and took note of a sliver of a blade at the young woman’s side. Then he spotted a hulking shadow to the left of the gate shrink away and knew that for the duration of her meal in the Great Hall, her walk down to the courtyard, and during her entire exchange with Bronn, Lady Sansa had never been unprotected.


	4. Where a Woman Belongs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’ve left you all unfairly waiting and done you a great disservice in starting this fic when I wasn’t in a good mental place to do so. I’ve been thinking of you, my readers, every day as I sit down and find myself only able to write a line or two before being dragged away from my laptop. I can only apologize to those who have so enthusiastically asked for an update. I made a promise to never give up on this story and I’m doing my damndest to keep writing, even with distractions like illness, rent, stress, and borderline mental breakdowns cropping up all the time. But I can’t wait for my mental health to reach a solid place to get back into writing this so I figured, fuck it, I’m going to do my best to get out what I can. I hope that, even if it's not as quickly coming (downright decomposing snail's pace) as you would like, it at least doesn't disappoint.

**SANSA**

Sansa loved her brother, but if there was one quality Jon did not possess, it was optimism. Even with the combined forces of his Dragon Queen and the Lannisters, his private admittance to her that it was not enough made her lose some of her patience with him. The thousands of men and women who had come to fight for their cause needed to see that those who led the charge were hopeful that victory might yet be theirs and the melancholy look Jon was sporting these days was not one that inspired confidence. It came to the point where Sansa was about to take him aside and have a stern conversation about the whole thing when they received envoy that an additional four hundred men were marching on Winterfell bearing the sigil of the kraken.

It had taken every ounce of self control to not sprint into the great hall where she knew she would be seeing a familiar face, one that she had missed more than she thought possible. Her years of training to be still and silent served her well as she waited for the leaders to be brought before her, Jon, Daenerys, Tyrion, and Bran (Cersei could not be bothered with such things, nor would she ever agree to share a position of power with Sansa). The hall crowded with the curious and the inquisitive and in the crowd she saw Arya, Ser Bronn, and of course—skulking at the far back where he could observe and not be observed—the Hound.

The procession that came before them consisted of four people, as the rest were told to wait on the other side of the trenches that were at this very moment being dug seven feet deep. The woman at the forefront could only be Theon Greyjoy’s sister, Yara, and she looked more frightening and impressive than half the men Sansa had seen enter a room with such a stride. Her wry, twisted lips were unreadable as she scanned the high table, examining those who sat there one by one. 

Theon was at her left side and behind, quickly scanning the room for a familiar face. Sansa knew he was looking for her, to see for himself that she had remade Winterfell her own. His eyes found her and she saw the prominent bulge in his throat lift and lower. It saddened her to see that even now, even after she had forgiven him, he feared her scrutiny. She wanted nothing more than to run to him, embrace him, and reassure him that she had not rekindled any hatred toward him in his absence.

“The last we had heard, you had gone down with your fleet,” said Daenerys, addressing Yara Greyjoy. “We were told there were no survivors.”

“I was taken hostage by the Black Kraken,” said Yara, spiting as she did so. “As were Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes. All are dead now, courtesy of the Lannisters. My brother Theon survived the attack on the fleet and returned to free me. We then gathered the rest of the men who could be spared and marched here, to fulfill our agreement. We will fight for you, Daenerys Targaryen, but the ironborn do not recognize authority from the lion or usurping kraken flags, both of which we saw plenty of beyond these walls.”

“If you fight for me, you need not worry about any command but my own interfering with your people,” said Daenerys warmly. “And your loyalty is met with much gratitude. I know you have suffered much to come here when you have less than half to offer me as you did when we first met. You will be honored and thanked with all I am able to provide for you when the battle is over.”

A bold promise to make, taking into account that there might not be an _after_ if the Hound was to be believed and Sansa caught the doubtful expression on his face from the back of the crowd.

“If my uncle and his men have come to fight this fight as well, then so be it: all the more bodies to put between us and the dead, but we will not serve them, we will not deal with them, and we will not fight beside them. We stake claim to our own area of the battlefield.”

“The finer details can be decided at the war council, something you happen to be just in time for,” said Jon. “But if you are in need of rest, we can delay for a few hours until you are ready.”

“I’m only in need of enough time to take a piss and down some wine,” said Yara. “My men have traveled far but they would stand at attention for hours if they needed to.”

“We can afford to delay long enough for you to see some proper rest. I expect that one of my battlefield generals has much to offer by way of tactics and I would see your full potential realized. Send envoy when you are ready and we will convene then. Until then, we will see to it that you and your brother are given substantial quarters.”

“We don’t require much. Whatever is left is what we’ll take, even if it’s in the shit with the horses. We’re not a band of useless girls who need looking glasses and silk sheets to fuck under,” said Yara dismissively.

Listening to Yara Greyjoy address higher lords and ladies so plainly, Sansa had to wonder what sort of man Theon would have been if he had been reared on that cruel collection of islands he called home. Would he have been as ill mannered, blunt, and frightening as his sister? Then again, if he had never been taken from the Iron Islands, Sansa would not have known him. Not like she did now.

She could see that he was wringing his hands for the duration of his sister’s exchange with Daenerys and when they had finished, he spoke out, addressing the ground as he was unable to meet the eye of anyone at the high table.

“If it please my queen, m’lords, m’ladies, I have peace to make with the inhabitants of this castle,” he said timidly, kneeling in place.

He meant for Sansa and Jon to listen to his apologies but he needed Daenerys’s permission more than theirs which made Sansa inwardly bristle that her friend needed a foreign queen’s leave to address them in their own home.

It was not Daenerys, however, who spoke to Theon first. Nor was it Jon who was staring daggers at Theon or Tyrion who regarded the young man with pity. It was Bran.

“Speak your mind on your feet, Theon Greyjoy.”

Theon glanced up to see Bran watching him and Sansa had never seen the color drain out of someone’s face so quickly as it did now. The last time the two had laid eyes on each other, Theon was beheading Ser Rodrik in the courtyard and Bran was but a crippled boy. Sansa knew all that happened on the day Theon took Winterfell thanks to Bran and knew what Theon had done following Bran’s escape thanks to Theon’s own confession. As the boy who had been acting lord and had his ancestral home swept out from under him, Bran might still harvest some hatred for Theon but as this three-eyed-raven, Bran might have found forgiveness in his heart.

Sansa would not begrudge her little brother his rightful hatred that Jon had already perfected but she hoped for their mother’s soft heart to be prevalent in Bran instead of their father’s dutiful coldness.

Coming back onto his feet, Theon diminished in front of Bran’s gaze.

“Speak, Theon,” said Bran again, though Sansa could not interpret his expression. He seemed to be at war with himself as his brow twitched and his right hand clenched and unclenched.

Stuttering to start until he was able to find his words, Theon reeled, “I would confess my sins now to prove that my services belong to House Stark. I know that what I did to hurt the family who took me in can never be forgiven. None of my actions were justified and I neither expect nor wish for them to be forgiven. The people who died by my hand or by my command still cry out for mercy in my nightmares and I accept that as punishment, but I will accept more and all that there is to atone for my crimes against Winterfell and all of its people past and present: against the family who only ever treated me as such, who I betrayed. I stand here, ready to accept judgment.”

Sansa could wait no longer. She did not need anyone’s consent to pass her judgment and pushed back her chair, ignoring the sound of the wooden legs scraping against the stone floor as she quickly moved around the table. She threw her arms around Theon who had braced himself for her, though she could feel his uncertainty as if he did not know whether to expect an attack or an embrace. He dared not lift his arms to return her gesture under the watchful eye of her brothers.

Holding him at arm’s length, Sansa raised her voice to the court and passed sentence for Theon Greyjoy. “You were forgiven a long time ago. You need not ever ask for forgiveness in your home.”

Relief flooded visibly through him and he held up his head proudly, matching her eyeline as a promise to her that he would fight for her again and always, protect her, and never again allow anything or anyone to harm her.

“Consider yourself pardoned and welcomed, Theon Greyjoy,” said Tyrion. “We will expect you at the war council as well.”

Sansa gave a nod of gratitude to Tyrion for closing the matter before anyone else could have a say. She embraced Theon once more and then allowed him to follow a set of guards to the quarters that could be spared for him. As the court dispersed, she returned to the table where Jon and Bran had remained, preparing to defend her solitary actions.

“No one had the right to condemn or forgive him except you,” said Bran as Sansa opened her mouth to speak. “He betrayed House Stark, but he found redemption in helping you alone. Only you could grant him what he wanted.”

“As long as you know that there will always be a part of me that hates him for what he did to Robb and to the people of this castle,” added Jon in a much graver tone.

Sansa could understand that, but if she could find it within herself to forgive Theon of aiding Ramsay and thus allowing harm to come to her, she most definitely could forgive him for the hurt he had brought to Robb and others. She did not share this sentiment with Jon, but she hoped he would realize in turn that she could not fully hand over the North as Jon so willingly had to a foreign queen who had yet to earn her right in these lands.

Two could play at this game.

She dismissed herself from the hall with Brienne following dutifully behind her and made her way outside where she could see Greyjoy flags being erected on the other side of the path from the Lannister and black Greyjoy tents. She did not trust that a gravel road would be enough to keep the two sides from warring before the battle had begun but the means of keeping each army in check would be one of the first matters to be brought up at the war council.

“Do you think four hundred men is enough to make the difference in a battle no one believes we can win?” Sansa asked Brienne.

“I have always been of the mind that just one person can make a difference, my lady,” answered Brienne. “I have seen it happen more times than I can count. Without that one person who was there for us when we most needed them, we would not be here and we would not be a part of bringing this massive force together to fight our greatest enemy. So yes, I think the men who have come with Yara Greyjoy will be of great benefit to us—if they can stay away from the black kraken soldiers long enough to see the battle.”

“Then I would not hold out hope. Ironborn don’t back down to anything or anyone, least of all other ironborn,” said a low and hoarse voice to their left. The Black Kraken himself was ambling toward them with an air of utmost supremacy. Here was a man who thought too highly of himself and had never been put in his place to humble him.

Sansa had lived among predators more years than she had not and knew what to look for in everything from facial expression to stance. Euron Greyjoy was an apex predator and he had known she would be coming this way. Already, he had memorized her movements about the castle no doubt in the hope of catching her alone. Seeing her in Brienne’s company now, however, he had to recalculate his attack plan.

There was a moment of silence in which both Sansa and Euron waited for the other to speak to establish dominance but Sansa was far more practiced in holding her silence than he and she knew he would concede first. To her disappointment, however, he appeared amused by this fact and not put out.

“Lady Sansa, I’ve come to personally deliver a message to you by way of Queen Cersei.”

“Things must have changed drastically in King’s Landing since I was last there for a lord of a noble house to be tasked and demoted to the role of messenger boy.”

If Euron was bothered by this slight, he did not show it, stating the message all the same. “Her Grace is not feeling up to her usual standards and requests that the war council be postponed until she’s able to make an appearance.”

“Perhaps she would have better luck asking the dead to hold off until she sees fit to show her face. The battle will not be held off for one woman’s whims,” said Sansa with disgust. “And the council will meet with or without her to ensure that we are ready for that battle that is to come.”

Euron flashed her another one of those unsettling smiles. “You’ve played with the Queen before, Lady Sansa, but never like this when she has nothing to lose. I wouldn’t test her if I were you. Tell your people that they’re to hold off until Her Grace is well enough to join you.”

Fixing her posture into a position that would put her at her tallest, Sansa delivered her scathing reply to this disgraceful excuse for a man. “I am accustomed to being threatened, my lord, but I will not tolerate it in my own home, least of all by a kraken who grovels at the feet of a lion for no other reason than to bed her. And trust me when I say that if she has given you any delusion that she cares for you or that she wants your child, you would do well to not take heed of those lies. The only man she ever wanted, the only one whose child she will ever bear is the one who came out of the womb with her. The babe growing in her belly as of this moment is not yours: She will have taken precautions to ensure it. So the kraken may lay with the lion but the offspring will only ever be pure lion of gold hair just as her last three children were.”

If Cersei refused to exchange words with Sansa, there was no other way for Sansa to hurt her than to spread doubt between her and her most loyal ally. But more than causing a rift between the lion and her lover, Sansa wanted to hurt Euron Greyjoy for what he had done to Theon. She knew Theon feared his uncle and that he could never be called a true Greyjoy by his own people while Euron lived.

Euron blanched at Sansa’s words and with all men who had seen themselves bested in a conversation, he turned it back around in a direction in which he could take the helm. “Though my queen is the only woman who has my affection and my dedication, I would gladly gift you with my cock as deep into you as it would go,” he said, inching closer to her.

“Five paces back or you die where you stand,” warned Brienne, hand on her pommel.

Undeterred, Euron fixed Sansa with an unblinking, wide-eyed, penetrative stare. “You might want to reconsider your sworn shield, my lady. If she has it her way, no cock will be allowed within ten leagues of you.”

“Least of all yours, now step back,” said Brienne, but instead Euron stepped closer, close enough that Sansa could smell what must have been saltwater perfume on him. In turn, he sniffed loudly and deeply, inhaling her scent as his eyes raked down the front of her and she knew he was mentally undressing her.

“You are welcome into my bed during these cold nights ahead of us, my lady. The queen need never know. Know that I would take you from behind and ride you hard until you screamed my name. You would know what it is to be taken by a true man as I bury my seed in your belly.”

A shiver ran down Sansa’s nape and she found herself no longer in the courtyard, but on her stomach in Ramsay’s bed, clutching the furs and crying out in anguish as he rammed into her from behind with no mercy. She felt her composure slipping and knew that in seconds she would have to hurry away from this vile man before her, leaving him with no doubt that she feared him and what he could do to her. And he would pass that knowledge on to Cersei who would exploit it.

Then she heard heavy footfalls in the snow beside her and the briefest warmth of something large and solid brush against her. The Hound stood there, silent as he had ever been at Joffrey’s side, but giving Euron Greyjoy an expression Sansa would certainly never want to be on the other end of. His hands were at his side, but then again, he did not need to arm himself to do damage to the much smaller man in front of him.

Unimpressed, Euron chuckled at the sight of the Hound beside Sansa. “You protect her as well, dog?”

“Only against vermin,” replied the Hound. “They tend to emerge from shit long enough to be a nuisance.”

“She already has the giant woman here, what need has she of you? Unless…you’ve already staked claim on her? Put your mark on her, have you? Warmed her bed, warmed her belly. If she’s had your cock, she’ll be stretched wide enough to take mine. A taste of a mutt when she deserves a kraken.”

Sansa heard a growl and only after she saw Euron take a wide step back did she realize it was not the Hound who had made the sound, but Ghost, stalking forward with his body one straight line from his nose to the tip of his tail. His unblinking red eyes dared Euron to advance as he came to stand beside the Hound.

“The fuck is that?” asked Euron.

“I’d go so far as to say a wolf,” said the Hound, sounding rather pleased at Euron’s fear though he too looked surprised to see Ghost.

“A direwolf,” said Sansa, taking heart from both of her bodyguards. “Hounds and wolves share a common ancestor and tend to work well together as well as speak for each other. I believe what he is saying to you at this moment is to be on your way.”

To prove the point, Ghost snapped at Euron who retreated with as much dignity as he could, stalking off to plot some other way to engage Sansa in unwanted contact. Only when he was well out of sight did Sansa dare to breathe again.

The Hound was also watching the spot where Euron had disappeared and slowly turned back toward her. “Will the wolf stay with you?” he asked, looking just past her ear and not directly at her.

“If he senses danger still, yes.”

The Hound gave a curt nod and left her without explanation or even a glance. His hasty exit was a retreat, a flight from a situation he was not equipped to handle now that he did not know in what standing he was with the Lady of Winterfell. Euron Greyjoy had accused him of both raping and making love to Sansa and he was ashamed of it. Perhaps not ashamed to have someone blatantly observe what might have happened if she had chosen to go with him long ago, but rather ashamed because he knew that she would know that some part of him secretly wanted her, in whatever way.

She could feel his attraction as a slight pull on her, but from what little she knew of him, he would not take liberties, not when death was so near and he had given up running from it. Even in desperation, with the wights scaling the walls and cutting through the sea of defenders, the Hound would never force himself on her, even if he did want her.

“My lady?”

Sansa realized she had been standing for well over a minute in silence after the Hound’s departure and Brienne was watching her with concern.

“How conveniently quick he was to come to my assistance. He was following me from the moment we left the great hall and you knew,” Sansa said and it was not a question.

“I know he will not harm you, my lady, and there are precious few individuals in this world whom I trust, but he is one of them and for that reason, I allowed him to trail you. It is not my place to say, but I have observed him in his attempts to protect both you and your sister and he was the same man just now as he was the day I fought him over the right to defend your sister. Threats against your family anger him. I believe he sees himself as your protector, perhaps a father figure, but nothing more.”

Sansa did not want a father figure and even if she did, she most definitely did not want it to be Sandor Clegane. She could never envision him in the role once played by Eddard Stark. The very thought did not sit well in her brain, especially when she knew that there was some part of him that desired her.

She sifted her fingers through Ghost's fur in thought until he stalked off, sensing that she was in good and capable hands. “I am going to the godswood,” she said on sudden inspiration. “You may allow in those who are known to me but I need hardly add who I have no desire to see when I am in there.”

“Yes, my lady.”

She made quick work of her walk to the gates to the godswood and was light on her feet as she trekked through the light layer of snow to the springs where she knew she would find her quarry. For a man who held no religion, he came here often to seek the silence of the woods, as she did. The stillness calmed her and brought her mind peace and most likely did the same for him. As expected, she found him pacing the edge of the pool but he did not grant her the courtesy of acknowledgement as she came closer.

Deciding that he would call her out on a lie if she gave it or on prattling on about a subject other than the one she came to speak to him about, she was forthright when she spoke. “I already have a sworn shield.”

“A woman who Euron Greyjoy doesn’t take seriously,” returned the Hound.

“Are you saying she isn’t dangerous because she’s a woman?”

“You know that’s not what I bloody meant. I fought against her and earned myself a near death experience, didn’t I? I know she’s dangerous but he doesn’t and that wasn’t the time for him to find out. With the younger generation of Greyjoys coming to the fight, there’s more bad blood to settle and I’d be surprised if there are any krakens left to fight when the battle finally comes. And on that note, what business have you in striking up an alliance with the Greyjoys? Last I heard, Theon Greyjoy betrayed your brother Robb for the Salt Throne after putting your home to the torch.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Theon Greyjoy was the one who liberated me from the Boltons while they held Winterfell. And I have publicly forgiven him, as I forgave you.”

“He murdered your people, members of your household—“

“I recall that you did the same,” Sansa snapped.

“I was told to.”

“You might have refused.”

“And gotten my head taken off for it. I’m not stupid, girl.”

“You could have fooled me into believing otherwise.”

The Hound made an involuntary motion as if he was exercising great restraint to not grab her by the arms as he had so often done many years ago to shake some sense into her. It had frightened her to be touched by him, but it was always to deliver wisdom and advice in the form of harsh truths. Now, he would not dare, not when too much time had passed, not when she was a woman grown and unafraid of him. But it had certainly crossed his mind.

“If you have a rebuttal, you’re welcome to use it,” she invited.

“What’s the use if I know you’re not going to heed it?”

“I might surprise you.”

The Hound nodded to the dagger at her waist. Per Ser Bronn’s strange request, Sansa had begun carrying a blade underneath her cloak, though she did not believe herself capable of using it to much effect when and if the time came to do so. Still, it gave her a sense of added security that she had not felt before.

“Who told you to arm yourself?”

“No one. I took it upon myself to keep a blade on me at all times,” she invented.

“What good will that do you against the dead?”

“It isn’t for the dead—“

“Because the dead aren’t the only ones that want to kill you. You let Lannisters into your home and now Greyjoys. People from both houses have tried to kill you on their own whims. You trust that boy who serves his sister when he’s the reason you were brought back to this castle in the company of strangers instead of members of your own household. Of his own free will, he did that. And yet _I’m_ the stupid one here.”

“Only in your accusations. Theon Greyjoy wronged me, saved me, and begged for my forgiveness which I willingly extended to him. The same could be said of you. In obeying Cersei’s orders you wronged me, in protecting me from the mob you saved me, and you earned my forgiveness in your service to my house. And I have known Theon far longer than I have known you, making his betrayal harder to forgive, yet I have done so. Tell me why I should continue to distrust him while you remain immune?”

“Because I know for a fact that I’m not trying to kill you. Your brother’s men, the wildlings, and the Dragon Queen’s armies are the ones I know are not trying to kill you. The two armies you just let into your castle and offered beds to haven’t convinced me that they’re not trying to kill you.”

“What does it matter to you how soon I die if we’re all going to die anyway?”

She had him now. He had admitted how little he cared for his own life in choosing to stay, fight, and most likely die but his disturbing concern for her life led her to believe that he was not letting on all that was going through his mind. He had an ulterior motive and he was stubbornly withholding it from her. It was not to cleanse his soul of his past wrongdoings; he needed to be religious to believe in such things. No, his motive was to appease a part of him that he would not willingly share with her.

“I ask you again, Sandor, what does it matter to you?”

“What’s it matter to you how I spend my time? I’ve always made damn sure that nothing gets close enough to rape you while I’m around and old habits die hard. Least I could do is let you go to your grave with some dignity.”

“No one is going to rape me before I die, of that you can be sure. I will not ever be that helpless again. I may have a sworn shield, but I will fight tooth and nail before I allow a man to lay hands on me.”

The Hound chuckled. “How many times do you think waving that dagger at someone will work before they knock it out of your hand and have their way with you anyway, girl? You’ll need to know more than how to unsheathe a blade to hold off anyone who wants at you. Assuming you can steer clear of all the humans in this place who would do you harm, you have at best three weeks to learn how to make yourself useful for what’s to come. Think you can manage that?”

“I’ll have to. Would you teach me?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

The Hound made a very obvious and scathing point of raking his eyes from her brow to her feet but unlike how she had felt when Euron Greyjoy did it, she knew the Hound was examining the weak points on her, her ineptitude for battle. “Because this,” he gestured at her in her entirety, “isn’t made for the combat that I know. You’d be better served having your sister teach you something that she picked up wherever the hells she went to these past few years.”

“She and I are built quite differently. What suits her might not serve me just as well,” said Sansa, beginning to despair that she was indeed just as useless as she had ever been in having others fight her battles for her. But having Euron Greyjoy visually assault her and having to rely on two other people and a wolf to protect her, she did not ever again want to feel as helpless as she had while the castle belonged to Ramsay.

“Then I suppose you’ll be wherever all the rest of the women and children are, where you belong.”

“Is that where I belong?” she challenged, now hurt that he still thought so little of her.

“Aye, as long as you’re a hindrance, that’s where you belong. Where you don’t belong is where you aren’t experienced. A person who can’t fight does more damage to their allies than you’d think.”

“I will not be deemed so incompetent. Surely, with your knowledge of warfare, you could think of something I might be able to partially master within three weeks with vigorous training and discipline?”

“I would suggest archery, my lady.”

It did not surprise her that Littlefinger had been listening in on her conversation. Almost nothing was sacred from him, not even in her own home, though she had given Brienne leave to permit anyone except Lannisters and Euron Greyjoy into the godswood. She would have to be more thorough next time. However, she was properly intrigued by Littlefinger’s proposal and prompted him to explain as he approached looking rather pleased with himself.

“What about my physique suggests that I might make an adequate archer, Lord Baelish?”

“You have a slender form, tall, but balanced. Not enough strength to wield a sword in a way that would do you any good and not small enough to be quick and difficult to catch. You could pick up an axe or a knife and have the best men in those fields tutor you through the next few weeks and still be abysmal at it. You could learn how to defend yourself with these close-range weapons and promptly drop them and run when the dead come for us. Or, you could learn to mark your target from a safe distance and provide some sort of help to those out in the thick of it.”

“Speak from experience in when it’s best to run, do you?” asked the Hound.

Had it been anyone else, Sansa would have reprimanded the individual for speaking to a lord with such disdain, but given that it was the Hound and that he insulted a man Sansa did not much care for to begin with, she said nothing. Littlefinger, however, kept that all-knowing grin as he addressed the Hound.

“I was never a swordsman. Lady Sansa’s Uncle Brandon struck me down when I challenged him and but for my small and narrow frame, he might have cut me open far worse than he did. But I did and have practiced with a bow in recent years, something I can certainly take up again and something I would be all too willing to assist Lady Sansa with.”

“It is something you _will_ take up again, Lord Baelish,” said Sansa. “You are able-bodied and have knowledge and experience in combat. If you are gifted with the bow, you will teach me and then I will leave it to the archery master to decide if you are talented enough to serve in battle.”

Looking sick at how his goal to privately tutor Sansa had turned on him, Littlefinger opened his mouth to backtrack but Sansa cut him short before he could begin as a messenger boy arrived with news that the war council would be held off until the evening to allow Yara Greyjoy ample enough time to recuperate (and hopefully enough time for Cersei to stop acting the part of the incompetent she was).

“We are in luck, Lord Baelish. It would seem that our immediate plans are postponed, leaving us enough time for you to reacquaint yourself with the bow and to take me on as a pupil. Let us begin."

/ /

She had seen experienced archers, masters of the bow, and the images she held of them did not match Littlefinger at all. So used was she to seeing him in his figure-hugging finery that she was properly jarred to look upon a man dressed for battle in an archer’s garb. Greaves at his wrists, tight-fitting clothes to provide less of a chance that the arrow would snag, a belt that could support a waist-fitted quiver, light, springy leather for boots with little cushioning in the sole.

Sansa had had time to change into more appropriate attire herself and found that she would need special alterations made to pre-existing clothes so that she could move her legs freely. It would not do to be an archer stuck in the confines of various layers of skirts. She had tied her hair back and fitted herself with greaves of her own as well as a finger-guard. Blisters were to be expected, but she needed to avoid them with so little time to spare waiting for them to heal.

After finding a bow to match her height, Littlefinger had the archery master, Killick, run her through the proper form and basic stances before leaving her to Littlefinger’s tutelage. He had her watch him for the better part of twenty minutes before he allowed her to try her hand at it. To no one’s surprise, least of all her own, she was rubbish. The bow was foreign in her hands, the stance was awkward, and the target seemed much too far. Her only solace was that it was only her first day, her first hour.

And she had three weeks, if that, to get it right.

Her training had to be diligent, thorough, and extensive. Every spare hour had to be spent in the practice yard or she was wasting both hers and Littlefinger’s time, though he was not nearly as juvenile as she had hoped he would be.

He was fairly accurate, but more importantly, he was quick to the draw, a skill that lent itself well to him with his small, lean frame. He would snatch an arrow from the ground quiver, fix it into the bow string, and mark his target with a speed Sansa could not match, much to her frustration. She tried not to let her chagrin show as she watched him hit the target time and again, marking eight out of ten deadly shots for every thirty of hers.

When her arrow sailed clean over the target and struck the wall behind it with enough force to snap the entire shaft, Littlefinger set his bow tip in the mud, leaning slightly on it to watch her with amusement.

“Does my failure entertain you, Lord Baelish?” asked Sansa clippingly.

“Not nearly as much as your frustration with yourself does, my lady,” he answered. “You cannot expect to be an excellent marksman in a few weeks when others have taken lifetimes to perfect their craft.”

“My sister is an excellent shot with no one to train her but herself. It is in my blood to be able to do battle of some sort.”

“That might very well be true, but you are focused entirely too much on trying to best me and prove yourself instead of trying to hit your target. Pretend I am not here and think only of trying to sink your arrow into the target. Remember that none of us are here to judge your marksmanship. You will still be in the crypts when the battle comes, but if the defenses fall and the dead breach the walls, the number of defenders in the crypts will be few and far between. You may have the ability to rally those who have taken shelter with you if they see that you are ready, willing, and able to fight.”

“She’s not the problem; you are,” said a cheery voice and Sansa saw Ser Bronn approach with far too much amusement for her liking. “She can’t concentrate with you ‘round. Clear off for a bit, see how much she improves when you come back.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Littlefinger scathingly.

“Rest for a few moments, Lord Baelish. I can manage without you,” ordered Sansa and Littlefinger excused himself, glaring at Bronn as he went.

“Scheming little twat, he is,” said Bronn when Littlefinger was out of earshot.

“And a fair marksman, which is why he is training me.”

“I don’t care if he’s the best marksman in the Seven bloody Kingdoms, he’s still a twat. And he doesn’t have as good of form as he thinks he does. And you’re just learning bad habits from ‘im. Stop stickin’ your arse out. Tuck it all in, plant yourself, but stand tall. Less of a target to others, but not easily knocked down. Y’need a solid foundation or the tiniest gust’ve wind will knock you right over.” 

Bronn set about to correcting her posture, placing his hands where he needed to in order to get the desired results. Sansa let him, more at ease than she knew she should be as he moved about her. Finally, when he was satisfied with her positioning, he pointed to the painted mounds of hay and cloth several dozen yards out.

“Don’t aim for the target, aim for the center. The smaller your target, the smaller chance you’ll miss. If y’aim for the whole body, you’ll miss the whole body. If y’aim for the heart, you’ll still hit the body even if y’miss what you were aimin’ for. Take a breath, let it out, take another, an’ fire on the exhale. Always on the exhale. Your body moves on the intake. Try it out, now.”

Trying to bear all his advice in mind, Sansa let her arrow fly and was properly surprised when it struck in the second ring from the center.

“See? Don’t ever take advice from someone who’s watched a battle when you can learn from someone who’s been _in_ battle. Your Lord Littlefinger’s always had an army between ‘im an’ anyone who’d do ‘im harm an’ doesn’t know the first thing about shootin’ at a movin’ target. His kills have been stationary an’ non-lethal. He’s never had somethin’ or someone comin’ at ‘im while he tries to reload. I’d bet all the gold in the world that he’d shit himself if he went up against an opponent that tried t’kill ‘im at the same time.”

“Have you often served as an archer in battles, ser? I was led to believe that you were more of a foot soldier.”

“Jack of all trades, m’lady. It’s true, I don’t often start out with a bow but I can use one just as well as I can use me sword an’ dirk.”

“And when was the last time you shot at something that wanted to kill you?” She did not mean to sound condescending; she was merely curious.

“Last time it was one’ve them dragons, m’lady,” said Bronn plainly. “Stalemate, but I still hit ‘it. An’ trust me when I say that if Lord Littlefinger had been up against _that_ for an opponent, he would’ve shit clear through his trousers. Now, try again.”

Sansa resumed her stance and fired but was disappointed to see the arrow land along the fabric lining the target and nowhere near the center.

“Now, don’t get upset with y’self,” admonished Bronn when Sansa swore under her breath at her failure. “Until y’get more comfortable with it, y’can’t try t’do better than the last time. For now, just try t’get the same results. Then, when you’re consistent with it, _then_ you can try to do better.”

Once again, Sansa struck up the archer’s pose, let her breath come and go twice, and fired on the exhale. Her arrow found its mark quite close to where her first arrow had gone in. Bronn clapped twice in approval and made to grasp her arm but seemed to think better of it. Instead he nodded at her back end.

“Remember, keep that arse in. Even men with no arse to speak of stick it out an’ fuck up their whole stance because’ve it. Keep it in or watch it get shot off.”

“I appreciate your time in teaching me, ser. I do see the merit in learning from an experienced fighter, though my initial choice refused to help me. He seemed to think it would be a waste of his time.”

“Waste of _our_ time,” corrected the Hound, and Sansa was peeved to find him leaning against the nearby arcading with his arms crossed.

“How long have you been standing there?” Sansa admonished.

“Maybe an hour.”

Furious that he had refused to train her with the claim that it would do no good and then deliberately remaining silent as he watched her train with someone else anyway, Sansa shouldered her bow and marched over to him.

“I find your attitude to be entirely disrespectful and unhelpful. I asked for your help, you declined, claiming you had better things to do, and so I allowed Lord Baelish to take your place but you have stood here since I began practicing.”

“I’m not an archer, girl. Never was. I could tell you to fit the arrow to the bow, pull back, and let go, and that’s as much as you’d learn from me. Littlefinger knows a mite or two about archery, so I let him take the lead since he seemed so eager to please you. You’d be as inexperienced in three weeks as you are today if I’d taught you. You’d learn nothing and I’d teach nothing. But you’re learning now and I’m watching, so we both benefit from it.”

“Go and watch someone else,” Sansa snapped.

“Do I make you nervous, girl?”

It was a challenge, a dare for her to touch on the forbidden subject both of them knew but neither one would bring up. He wanted to hear her thoughts on the matter, hear some small admittance from her, but he would be sorely dissatisfied if he had come to observe her just to get that tiny bit of satisfaction from her.

“Your presence is an irritation at best. If you plan to stand there and do nothing, do so in silence or make yourself useful and go out to help dig the trenches.”

“There’s enough Unsullied and not enough room for a man of my size to do the digging.”

“Then I say again, be silent. I am trying to do my part to contribute to the battle and I do not appreciate you hindering my attempts. I do not want to rely on brutish and boorish men like you to do my fighting for me.”

She turned her back on him, returned to her place at the end of the shooting lane, and nocked an arrow to her bow. Sensing that the Hound was still watching her, she turned her head to face him and released the arrow, glaring at him for being a distraction. Only when one of his eyebrows cocked upward and a tiny grin appeared at the corners of his lips did Sansa turn back to see that she had made center-target.


	5. Once a Northerner

**JORAH**

He did not take pride in many things; pride was a luxury no longer afforded to him and he had never been a proud man to begin with, but he did revel in his position in training the greenest of green boys for battle. Even the youngest of them were toughened lads and Northerners all and so Jorah would have expected nothing less of them. The youngest was no older than ten-and-three but he came from Bear Island and seemed especially intent on impressing Jorah. 

Jorah, Brienne of Tarth, Beric Dondarrion, and—to Jorah’s immense displeasure—Ser Bronn of the Blackwater were chosen to be drilling instructors: to revisit the basics and teach the advanced. 

What Jorah voiced aloud to no one else was the thought that most if not all of these boys would die on impact with another blade. Facing a living enemy that could be wounded was one thing, but their enemy would come at them with the speed and strength of a thousand men and unless their first swing or stab was true, they were highly unlikely to be alive to deliver a second. They consisted of the last defense, the band of lesser-able elder men and boys who would help guard those who could not fight. These were the ones who would be humanity’s last hope if the dead broke through the thousands of men and women out on the battlefield.

Assisting him and his comrades in training were a few individuals on the younger side of life themselves: Lady Arya Stark, Podrick Payne, and Jorah’s own young cousin, Lady Lyanna Mormont. It had been a curt and brief meeting with his aunt’s daughter and words and sentiments were not wasted on either of them. Jorah had never met her for she had been born long after he went into exile but she was a fierce little thing like her mother had been and she had perfected the Mormont glower—though at too young of an age. She had greeted him, told him she would see him again at the war council, and left just as quickly as she had come.

Now, she was instructing boys twice her age in proper form and sparring with the youngest only because none of the older boys seemed willing enough to strike a blow on a lady. That same notion did not go for Arya Stark who bested every boy and a few men as well who came at her, refusing to back down and driving them all to fight back as hard as they could.

Beric Dondarrion was most encouraging with his pupils and Brienne of Tarth was strict but fair. Jorah believed himself to be compassionate but stoic in that he did not give false praise but pushed the lads to give their all.

Bronn of the Blackwater had a more unique approach. Dry cursing, belittling, and angering his students, he showed no mercy and it took some encouraging on Jorah’s part to get any lads to practice with the knight since they were the ones who could take the beating. Though Jorah still did not approve of Bronn calling them “pieces of filth that just slithered from their mother’s twat”, he had to admit that as unconventional as Ser Bronn’s methods were, they were effective in how the boys were the fiercest coming out of their turn to battle. 

Midday saw the participants taper off to make water, vomit, or take a small meal before the next series of bouts and after a quick round of the castle to inspect the trench digging which was being overseen by Grey Worm, Jorah made his way inside to the busy courtyard where armor was being prepared, horses properly shoed, bundles of arrows feathered. At the far side by the entrance to the godswood Lady Stark and Lord Baelish were in practice of their own but Lady Stark appeared to be having an argument of sorts with her advisor.

Jorah lingered one second too long, for Lady Stark caught sight of him and called to him undoubtedly to settle the argument and which Jorah wanted no part of. All the same, he went to her with a bow of his head and curiosity on his mind for he had not spoken to her at all despite being a guest of Winterfell for well over a week and a half now. If she knew him and knew enough about him to seek him out, he wondered what use she could have for his services.

“Ser Jorah, you have been assigned the task of instructing the youngest of our soldiers, have you not?” she asked in that toneless manner only a Stark could get away with.

“That I have, my lady.”

“And would you consider yourself to be more than adequate with the blade?”

“I am not one to say, my lady, though by standing here after going beyond the Wall, I believe my actions speak for me.”

“Then I request that you give a private lesson to Lord Baelish here and by private I mean that he shall be your only pupil for the remainder of the afternoon. He is a fair archer but all able-bodied men need to know how to hold their own in close combat because eventually the arrows will run out.”

Lord Baelish attempted to protest in the form of a hushed conversation with Lady Stark but she spoke over him.

“I expect that Lord Baelish will need some proper brushing up on his technique but he trained with my Uncle Edmure as a young man and the Tully master-at-arms would have seen to it that he did not slack off in his performance. Still, a refresher course is in order and I wish for him to learn from the best.”

“You honor me, my lady, but—“

“If you are fearful that you might harm him, I would alleviate your fears by pointing out that nothing you can do to him would be half as bad as what a wight can do to him. Pain is to be expected.”

Jorah was not certain what sort of counterargument he could present but was spared the discomfort of finding an excuse by the arrival of Ser Bronn.

“If m’lady approves, I’d like t’lend me hand in givin’ Lord Baelish a few lessons,” said Bronn, looking far too eager to do intentional harm and not be reprimanded for it.

Lady Stark gave a nod of approval and stepped aside for Lord Baelish to approach his imminent doom. She might as well have just given him his death sentence for how quickly he paled as he stepped before Jorah and Bronn. This lord knew nothing of Jorah and did not know what sort of treatment to expect from him but he knew the type of man Bronn was and knowing exactly what was coming from the knight did not appear to comfort him in the least.

Lord Baelish glanced at the wooden blades in Bronn’s hands but Bronn gave a _tsk, tsk_ sound and tossed them away. “No sparring swords for you, m’lord. There’s not enough hours left in our lives t’practice with anything but a real sword.” He handed one of his two swords to Lord Baelish whose grip slackened as he took the weight of it. "Heavy, innett? Not like the dainty quills and bags of coin you’re used to.”

Astonished at how little Bronn respected a lord, Jorah had to consider that perhaps bad blood existed between the two of them and now that they served separate queens, Bronn felt comfortable chastising the man who no longer had any power over him. It did not, however, surprise Jorah that Lord Baelish had unresolved conflict between more than one person in Westeros. His reputation preceded him.

“Hardly my first time holding a sword,” said Lord Baelish in response to Bronn’s slight, hefting his weapon into ready stance. It was a small saving grace that at least the man would not make a complete fool of himself in knowing the basics.

Jorah stepped out with a thrust and with his lithe frame, Lord Baelish was able to side-step his attack and come in for an overhead attack of his own which Jorah easily blocked. Lord Baelish had put his full weight into his attack and stepped in too close with no plan as to what to do next. If Jorah had been a cruel man, he might have elbowed the lord in the nose or kneed him in the groin and if Jorah had been a sadistic man he might have shamed Lord Baelish by slapping him like a green boy to reprimand him for his lack of technique. These things Jorah was not and he simply grabbed the lord by the front of his tunic to wordlessly tell him that he had just killed himself, had this been a real battle.

“And the lord is dead,” said Bronn. “My turn, Mormont.”

Bronn went about instructing Lord Baelish exactly how Jorah had tried not to. With a misstep, Bronn whacked the lord across the back of the legs. An unguarded torso meant an elbow in the stomach and an exposed face resulted in an open-handed slap.

After the third or fourth open demonstration of brutality, Lord Baelish threatened to have Bronn beaten for such treatment but Bronn made a bold confession that he had trained Ser Jaime Lannister in his current one-handed state and even taken the knight’s golden hand and hit its owner with it during their training sessions.

Jorah took over to spare Lord Baelish more disgrace at Bronn’s hands, watching Lady Stark for reaction but she sported a stone-faced expression that she had inherited from her father. He had seen that look before on his queen’s face and it meant that not enough blood had been spilt. Lord Baelish would have to suffer before Lady Stark would be satisfied and the sooner they met that goal, the sooner this farce could be done with.

It did not help Jorah’s resolve to pass on as little damage to Lord Baelish as possible in having a small crowd gather around them. Some Northerners, some commonfolk, a handful of Dothraki, mostly Lannister soldiers, and a face or two Jorah recognized. Besides the Dothraki, all of these people would know Lord Baelish, know what he was capable of, and either hate him or be cautious of him for it. They all wanted to see this man in the mud where he belonged.

Humiliation was not a game Jorah liked to play, nor one he approved of, but he had been given an order by the Lady of Winterfell, second only to Queen Daenerys herself and equal to Jon Snow who had relinquished his title of King in the North. He dared not refuse on account of this man he knew only through word of mouth.

Deciding that he would be quick in defeating his opponent to break up the demonstration, Jorah moved much quicker this time, ducking under Lord Baelish’s wild swing and upsetting the other man’s balance by entangling one of his legs. Lord Baelish fell on his side to a handful of snickers from the spectators.

As the lord wiped mud from his mouth with the back of his hand, Jorah came to the conclusion that this was not a proud man, either. He did not come to his feet with anger and determination to do better. He simply stood back up and waited for Jorah to come at him again. Here was a man used to being written off as a bad joke and all too used to it to care, but Jorah had the distinct feeling that Lady Stark’s order for Jorah to train the man was not to poke fun at him or put him on display for the courtyard to jeer at. She was testing him and if Jorah did not know any better, he would go so far as to say that she was punishing him.

The receiving end of a Stark’s wrath was not often one that ended well for the opposing side. If Lady Stark wished ill upon Lord Baelish, fate would have it no other way. Unfortunately for Lord Baelish, what proficiency he had was far outmatched by Jorah and Bronn and the more he fought back, the harder he worked to showcase his skill, the better he became, the more Lady Stark would push for him to be defeated and the harder she would demand for him to fall. His best weapon now was to stay in the filth where he landed and yield but he had just enough pride to not do so.

Jorah lunged and once again Lord Baelish stepped nimbly out of the way, lifting his blade parallel to his body to block the next blow he knew was coming. Overhead, underhand, side to side Jorah came at him, giving him room to fake a fall without actually being the cause of it, but Lord Baelish would not take the coward’s way out. Jorah drew blood when he punched out with one arm to use his greaves to block a downward strike and accidentally cut Lord Baelish across the chin with his armor.

Taking advantage of Lord Baelish’s shock at seeing his own blood, Jorah hacked sideways but was not prepared for what came next. Lord Baelish ducked, came around behind Jorah, and at the last second, turned his blade to strike Jorah alongside the back with the flat of it. Resigned that he would now have to be absolutely ruthless to make the lord pay for scoring a blow, Jorah prepared to feint and lunge when Bronn joined the attack, pushing Lord Baelish backward. Jorah joined in until they had their opponent positively lost and bewildered as to which direction he should swing his sword. Bronn went for a jab to Lord Baelish’s stomach and the latter sucked in as much of it as he could but Jorah took his distraction to his advantage and finished him with a kick to his knee, sending him sliding on his back into the muck at Lady Stark’s feet.

The lady paid no heed to her advisor, instead turning her attention to Jorah and Bronn who respectfully sheathed their swords in observance of the battle’s end. “Your verdict?” she asked them.

Jorah looked down on the heaving, gasping, bruised, and battered man before him. A negative verdict would bring displeasure down on him, but perhaps he deserved it. Jorah had heard nothing but praise of Lady Stark despite the many hardships she had endured and if a kind-hearted individual such as herself wanted this man to suffer, perhaps he should. But as Jorah saw the swelling on Lord Baelish’s cheekbone magnify from one of Bronn’s more powerful slaps, he knew that he and his fellow knight had done more than their share of punishing the lord for today.

“He is no great warrior, my lady, but he fought much better than I would have expected. A man of his build and upbringing, I would have put him flat on his back, yielding and refusing to pick up the sword again within the first minute but he held his own. Someone taught him long ago how to handle a sword and as out-of-practice as he is, I have to say that he did well.”

Looking not at all pleased with this information, however true and honest it was, Lady Stark appealed to Ser Bronn for his input.

“I’ve seen shit fighters, I’ve killed shit fighters, and I’ve killed excellent fighters. He’s somewhere in between. Wouldn’t choose ‘im first, second, or third t’stand beside me in a fight, but I’d take ‘im over all those boys I sparred with today and a good quarter of the Lannister men I came with. He’s not terrible, m’lady. Not great, either.”

Finally, Lady Stark turned to Sandor Clegane who had been observing and not participating, as per usual, though Jorah did not hold that against him. The man had little reason to want to mingle with anyone. The way Clegane was watching Lady Stark, however, suggested that he had known his opinion would be asked long before she actually asked for it.

“D’you want me to tell you honestly or d’you want me to tell you what you want to hear?”

The lady’s scowl was his answer.

“Were you hoping he’d fall on his face in the mud and shit and fail?”

“Hardly. I was merely putting his boasting to the test. He has told me quite often and loudly how he was talented enough to enter the tourney that nearly cost him his life. I knew that my Uncle Brandon unseated him easily and assumed it was due to his lack of skills but it would appear that my uncle was simply a master swordsman while Lord Baelish was merely adequate. The experience he has comes from his time being fostered in Riverrun with my mother’s family. What he knows, he owes to the Tullys. And when he faces mankind’s greatest enemy, at least now he stands a slightly lesser chance of dying. I thank you for your contribution to this demonstration, sers. It does my heart some good to know we at least have capable warriors such as yourselves defending us.”

Jorah and Bronn bowed as they found themselves dismissed but did not return to the outer bailey or find refuge inside as the crowd dispersed. Lord Baelish waited until the majority of them had begun to move away before he stood up and shared a look with Lady Stark that Jorah could not interpret. For a few tense moments the two regarded one another and then Lord Baelish conceded, trudging through the slush to return Bronn’s sword to him.

Bronn took back his weapon without comment and Lord Baelish moved off to have a change of clothes and tend to his wounds.

“Fiery little minx, she is,” commented Bronn as Lady Stark finally left the courtyard. “Littlefinger must have done her a great wrong an’ I’m only glad I’m not on the receiving end’ve that wrath.”

“If he wronged her gravely enough and he is still alive, he is serving his punishment,” said Jorah wisely.

“He keeps comin’ back for more, though. He wants more’n just her forgiveness, if y’catch on. An’ I can’t blame ‘im; she was always a pretty thing but she’s grown into a full beauty. He’d be mad t’not want her. Half the men in the castle want her.” The sellsword stared pointedly at Jorah.

“If you are waiting for an admittance from me, you will be standing here until you die, ser. While I do believe that she is a great beauty, I feel nothing for her in that regard.”

“That’s for the best, anyway. The tall fucker over there’s more likely to win her over than you.”

Bronn nodded to Clegane who watched Lady Stark go and then followed thirty steps behind. Out of her sight while she was still within his.

“If it comes down to the Hound or Littlefinger, it’s no contest; he’s always had a soft spot for her. Pity, really.”

“Leave him be. His wants are his own and no concern of yours.”

“Aye, but I’m a nosy fucker and I like t’know everyone’s business. An’ it seems t’me that Littlefinger’s gonna die tryin’ t’get back in Lady Stark’s good books, just a matter of whether the Hound or the dead get to ‘im first.”

“If Lady Stark wanted him dead, I am sure he would be, but she seems to be only making him atone for whatever crime he committed in a manner that she deems just. I admire her mercy, as it is very much like the Queen’s.”

“Cersei doesn’t know the meanin’ of the word,” scoffed Bronn.

“You know to whom I was referring. And she is the only queen I acknowledge. She has learned from her mistakes and acknowledges that she cannot please everyone, but she weighs her options and listens to both parties to avoid conflict and only then does she act with violence if she must. She shows no fear to what might be if she were to fail.”

“Aye, and I’m sure you could go on for some time about how she’s pretty an’ fearless, but won’t point out that she’s also young an’ naïve. She might’ve been born here, but she wasn’t raised here, wasn’t raised t’know that her father was a tyrant who also believed that it was his divine right t’rule. She can’t come here, offer all her armies, an’ expect loyalty. Loyalty is earned, not bought. She gave us three dragons and an army, but no one will see her as more than another queen tryin’ to buy her way to the throne unless her gifts help win this battle. An’ as much as you love ‘er, as much as you think she’s the queen we all deserve, you can’t be blind t’her faults. We all have ‘em an’ she’s far from perfect, just like the rest’ve us.”

He was right, of course, though Jorah had no intention of admitting it. Jorah had told Daenerys as much when she voiced her doubts to him about how the Northerners did not accept her with open arms as she had hoped—expected—they would. At the time, Jorah had only reassured her that they would see her as their true queen, but he did not see her coming as the omen that his brethren did. He was of the North, but had forfeited his lands and held no more claim to it and so he could not speak for his people. Surprisingly, the voice of the people came from this man before him who seemed to care so little for the monarchy either way.

And what’s more, Bronn seemed to know that his words had resonated with Jorah by the smug look he now sported as he continued. “A world away she only had to deal with cutthroats, slavers, an’ slaves. Over here, there are people who are set in their ways who won’t budge just because she has dragons. If she survives this war, she’ll find that out. You Northerners are a stubborn bunch, aren’t you? D’you see the likes of Lady Stark lettin’ a queen from across the sea tell her what’s best for her? If she an’ your queen are allies an’ she hasn’t yet bent the knee to a woman with dragons, d’you think Cersei will bend any easier?”

No, Jorah did not believe she would, but he also didn’t think any of this mattered if the war was lost and with how every ally seemed to have some ulterior motive, the chances of them winning this war were not looking promising.

/ /

He took his supper with his queen that evening after having wiped the sweat of the day from his body, not that she would have cared. Both of them sweat enough for ten people during their days in Essos and were used to far worse stenches than that. While he was quite famished, however, he noted that Daenerys picked moodily at her food and sensed a reprimand of sorts coming. When he placed his knife back down on the table, his suspicions proved correct.

“I hear Lady Stark had you perform a demonstration with her advisor in the courtyard this afternoon,” she said in a tone that suggested she disapproved of something.

“That is one word to describe what transpired,” said Jorah evasively. “Though Lord Baelish might have called it public humiliation. I obliged Lady Stark as quickly and humanely as possible on behalf of Lord Baelish, knowing that you would not approve.”

“To the contrary, I support her reasoning,” said Daenerys to Jorah’s surprise. “I do not support you taking part in it, but I believe she was well justified in her orders. Lord Baelish betrayed her and she has every right to exact vengeance on him. He should be grateful that he’s still breathing. Had he been _my_ advisor, he would never have lived to make a fool of himself with a sword.”

“You showed mercy to the advisor who betrayed you,” said Jorah delicately. He harbored no pity for Lord Baelish, but he did understand the man’s position, having been in it before with a far more dangerous woman than Lady Stark.

“You are my friend,” said Daenerys with warmth returning to her face as she extended her hand across the table to grasp his. “You have been my friend since I was a child, served me longer than anyone, and were willing to die to demonstrate your loyalty to me even after I exiled you. You showed true repentance and proved your devotion. You were nearly killed in more than one way for me and have proven several times over that you are a different man than you were when Robert Baratheon swindled you into serving him. Lady Stark has no such connection or devotion from Lord Baelish. He was always a stranger to her, never a true friend who assisted her when she needed him, and he led her to hardships she should never have had to endure. You are nothing like him.”

“I am different from him, true enough, _khaleesi_ , but he and I had very different upbringings and so we were shaped by circumstance. Perhaps frontal bravery is not what his family is known for. He’s a clever man where I am not. I am committed where he is not. But both of us have chosen to serve someone we believe in, as have countless others.”

“Lord Baelish does not _believe_ in Sansa Stark. He lusts after her, and little else. And she is not the one her people elected as their leader, nor the one they believe in. The North put their faith in Jon Snow and he believes in me as the Tyrells did, as Ellaria Sand did, and as Yara Greyjoy does.”

Such confidence Jorah saw in her, such a strong will, such faith that all of the peoples of Westeros would choose her as their monarch. Oh, his beloved queen, a child still in so many ways though he had seen her grow into this courageous, headstrong woman. She did not realize that she was being used as a pawn once again. She truly believed that those who flocked to her did so because they believed in her and the future she would bring. Now was not the time to tell her, but Jorah had failed her before in keeping the truth from her and even if it hurt her now, it must be said.

“Your Grace, while there are exceptions to every fact, I fear that those who came to stand beside you when you set sail for Westeros did so to fit their own agenda. The first enemy of the people was Cersei Lannister and who stands to gain from her defeat? She murdered nearly the entire Tyrell family and Olenna Tyrell sought vengeance against her. The Tyrell army had never been one to fear in skill, only number, and so Olenna Tyrell pledged her house to you in the hope that you would overthrow the Lannisters and she could have her peace of mind, even if she could not prolong her house. Ellaria Sand’s lover, Prince Oberyn, was killed fighting against a Lannister champion and she sought vengeance for the man she loved, so when Lord Varys offered her a chance at that, she grasped at it with no hesitation. Neither of these women supported you because of your claim to the throne or what you stand for. They only wanted to see Cersei Lannister fall and believed you to be young and malleable enough to see their side and grant them what they desired once Cersei was overthrown.”

“Yara Greyjoy had only broken remnants of a fleet but she came here to serve me all the same,” Daenerys pointed out.

“Forgive me, _khaleesi_ , but I don’t believe Yara Greyjoy came this far north to serve you. She became your ally when you promised to exclude the Iron Islands from your reach and when she lost nearly her entire fleet, she came to the only person who she knew would keep their word to help her. She said she would fight for you, that you would join forces, and then she lost most of her people because of that deal she struck. She suffered much and gained nothing from you for her loyalty. Yes, she came to fight, but not for you. I believe she came to confront her uncle, share the field with him and kill him in the midst of it. And I think even that took some convincing on her part. I’m sure she would have been happy to retake the Iron Islands for her own if not for her brother.”

“Are you saying that Theon Greyjoy is more loyal to me than she is? The armada was not his, the plan to ally themselves with me was not his,” said Daenerys doubtfully.

“Theon Greyjoy is loyal to the Starks. He came to fight for the Starks. He despises his uncle as well, but that is not what drives him. That poor boy is devoted to the house that raised him but more specifically, Lady Stark. I do not know to what extent his betrayal goes, but I do know that he and Lady Stark shared an experience that redeemed him and for that, he is loyal to her. And that is why the Greyjoys are here; not for you, but for revenge and for Lady Stark. Because loyalty, _true_ , unwavering loyalty cannot be bought or promised. It must be earned.”

“And you believe I haven’t earned that?” Her lavender eyes were alight with the fire of her house and her name. “After I sacrificed a dragon and my birthright to defend these people, you don’t believe that I have earned their loyalty?”

“Not yet,” said Jorah patiently. “You sacrificed a dragon to bring a message to Cersei Lannister and secure her contribution. But the battle has not yet been fought, the outcome not yet decided. Those who fight for you—the Unsullied and Dothraki—have seen what you have done for others and have seen you take cities for your own. You are the queen they chose because they saw your greatness. The people of Westeros have seen you arrive with dragons and demand that they bend the knee. They have seen none of that greatness. But if this battle is ours, if victory is ours, then they will know it was only won thanks to you and then they will see why we chose you as our queen.”

It was a painful thing to see how his words wounded her so, but retaking an entire continent simply because her father had reigned first would not be as easy as she believed it to be. As Bronn had said, Essos was filled with the desperate and lost, those who had fewer rights than commonfolk. They had chosen Daenerys as their queen because anything would be better than the lives they lived but in Westeros, the people knew exactly what they wanted and were not keen to give it up to a new player in the game.

“Jon Snow,” began Daenerys in a desperate attempt to provide proof that someone in this world truly wanted her to sit the throne because of her goodness and her birthright.

“Jon Snow came to you for help against a different enemy. He came to you as King in the North, separated from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, unbothered by Cersei Lannister and her enemies. He asked for your help to fight a dead army, knowing he could not defeat it without you. He may see you as I do and know that you have a good heart, a fair mind, and justice on your side which qualifies you more for the throne than your name ever could, but he did not seek you out for any of those reasons. He needed what you could provide without second thought as to who you are.”

Pushing her uneaten plate of food away from her, Daenerys sat back in her chair and hugged her arms to her chest. She had done this often as a young woman when feeling vulnerable but Jorah had not seen her do so in a terribly long time. Inwardly he was cursing himself for relaying the truth to her, but she had come this far being lied to by nearly everyone; she deserved the truth from the man who had much of the truth to make up to her.

Jorah came to kneel beside her, hoping that she would listen and not turn him away as she was prone to doing when conflicted. “My queen, I say these things to you because you deserve to hear them. The people of Westeros have never been satisfied with those who have ruled over them. They pray for a different king to sit the throne and then lament for their old king once a new king has finally come. The people of this world seek only their own fortunes and will use whoever they can to achieve their own ends. This journey to become the mother to all of Westeros was placed upon your shoulders at a young age and it is the only goal you have ever known: to come to your homeland and reclaim it and if that remains your goal after this war, I will stand beside you as I always have. But at this moment, right now in the face of death, your goal does not matter. Your house, your name, your birthright, does not matter. The hierarchy of Westeros means nothing if there are none left to squabble over who sits the throne and which house stakes claim to which lands. All that matters is your next breath and making sure you get to experience that next breath. When the dead stop rising, when the Long Night is over and the dawn comes, then we will look to the future.”

“And what if there is no future?” she asked him, her eyes round and fearful as a child asking its parent what could keep out the night. Even now, after all these years, he remembered her words to him when she was at her most vulnerable with only a handful of Dothraki remaining to follow her through the wastelands to a future none of them were certain existed.

“ _You must be their strength,”_ he had told her.

“ _As you are mine,”_ she had returned.

Now offering out his hand to comfort her, to reassure her, he felt a barely distinguishable tremble in it.

“We can’t worry about what happens outside of our lifetime, _khaleesi_. We can only hope to have an impact right here and now. The Long Night is coming and we have to be ready, which means putting aside everything to preserve the man or woman standing beside us. It is just us and no more help is coming. As we fight to live or die, it matters not what our name was, what our sigil bore, or what title we carried. It is _us_ that matters, and that is all that can matter from now until the end: our end or the dead’s.”

He could see that the thought truly terrified her. Ever since coming into her inheritance of dragons, she had had an unfortunate mindset that she was untouchable, that her name and many titles and dragons protected her from harm. Her dragons had done a great deal in shielding her from foes, but it was them with a combination of loyal servants, experienced fighters, and luck that she had lived this long. Many times she could have been cut down if not for the skill of those around her but she came to rely on her dragons as the ultimate barrier between herself and mortality. And when the Night King had taken one of her children, she was faced with the crippling reality that neither she nor her dragons were invincible and she was just now coming to grips with the fact that the dead could and very well might kill her. The dead could do away with her armies, her dragons, her friends, and her and there was nothing she could do.

She squeezed his fingers hard, hard enough to bruise, but he let her for her own reassurance, to have comfort in the knowledge that he was there and would be for as long as he could, as long as he was allowed to be.

/ /

Jorah had been absent from the North for too long, for he never recalled being this cold south of the Wall before. Bear Island had more frigid temperatures than Winterfell as it sat on its perch at sea, surrounded by freezing waters, yet Jorah had to continuously rub feeling back into his nose as he surveyed the surrounding moor several hundred miles inland.

His supper with the queen left him in need of some head-clearing and so he had volunteered to take a four hour shift atop the walls, pacing his section of the ramparts and squinting into the darkness for a sign. It was well on into the last hours of the night and approaching midnight when he heard company approaching in the form of rather light and flighty footfalls.

Lord Baelish had changed out of his filthy archer’s garb and was now sporting the fur-collared coat and black leather Jorah had seen him don most often. The muck and sweat from their earlier spout was gone and Jorah could have been fooled into believing the man had never partaken in a bladed battle before if not for the obvious swelling and bruising on his face, courtesy of Bronn. Rubbing his hands together, Lord Baelish came closer to the elevated fire pit between himself and Jorah. “I suppose you do get used to this weather after you’ve lived here for some time,” he said conversationally.

“You can, but your resistance to it can falter if you have a prolonged absence, as I have. And this is only the beginning of winter. It could be years, if the world lasts that long. The way most men go on about it, the world has a few weeks left and then it will be the Long Night come again.”

“Do you believe that to be our fate?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I did.”

“Then you must be a noble man, one of the few knights who upholds his vows and sticks to a moral code,” Lord Baelish guessed. “Loyal, determined, and optimistic.”

“I try to be, but we are human and we all have our faults.”

“One of mine is that I did not come to express my gratitude to you earlier. I wanted to personally thank you for not completely burying me in the ground to showcase your skills as your companion attempted to do in the courtyard today. I know it would have been easy, but I appreciate you refraining and instead trying to finish the duel as painlessly as possible.”

“What was Lady Stark punishing you for?” asked Jorah boldly.

“For the many sins I’ve committed against her family.” When Jorah had nothing to add, Lord Baelish prompted, “Are you not even going to ask me what I did?”

“Not at all. A man’s sins are his own business and we all have committed them. I betrayed my queen, she rightfully punished me, and I fought like seven hells to return to her service and after many grueling years, she has forgiven me.”

“But did your actions ever result in her coming to harm?”

It was not an open admittance, but a very near thing. Lord Baelish had done something quite terrible to Lady Stark, perhaps even intentionally, which was something Jorah had never done. The only way in which his actions might have hurt his queen was if he had allowed the assassin posing as a vendor to offer Daenerys the poisoned wine and Jorah had seen to it that the wine never touched her lips. It was his one and only betrayal, and his greatest. So what in the world had Lord Baelish done?

“No, never,” answered Jorah. “They very well could have, but I prevented it. And I am guessing that you were not so lucky.”

“My actions deliberately placed Sansa Stark in harm’s way and I knew they would do so but foolishly hoped her own luck would hold out. She has not yet taken me back, nor do I expect her to, though I try every day and I fear my days of trying are limited and that I will never earn her forgiveness before the end.”

“Perhaps not, but if that is the case, the least you can do is die as a man fighting for her. To give your life for hers even though it might not matter, she might forgive you before your gods have you.”

Lord Baelish scoffed. “I have no gods. They have never done anything for me, nor have I found visible and believable proof that they have ever done anything for anyone. They are entities of false hope for the hopeless.”

“I don’t have gods known to man but I do believe something or someone has led me this far when I have every reason to be dead already. Some divine intervention stronger than fate has brought me to this place to fight for mankind and so I believe that that same divine intervention brought you here, though I cannot say for what purpose.”

“Apparently to sate Lady Stark’s revenge and punish me for eternity.”

“Do you think you’ve been punished enough?”

Jorah could not judge this man on that front if he did not know exactly what he had done to put himself in this situation, but if Lord Baelish could still muster that ill-begotten smirk, apparently he had _not_ been punished enough.

Lord Baelish drew a pattern in the light layer of snow but didn’t answer, which was all the answer Jorah needed. Finally, when he had nothing left to occupy his hands, Lord Baelish squashed his design and admitted, “I would like nothing more than to believe I have served my sentence but I know in my heart that my suffering will only be complete when Lady Stark believes it to be and she is difficult to please. And I fear you are right in that I will be seeking her forgiveness until my dying day, however soon that may be.”

“Then show her that you want her forgiveness not for yourself by defending her. When her life is more important than yours, when you would fall upon your own sword or the sword of others, when you would offer up your body to whatever pain might come your way to shield her, then she will know that you are truly sorry. And I believe she will forgive you then.”

Commanding Jorah’s full gaze, Lord Baelish spread his arms as if to put himself on display in open criticism. “Have a look at me, Ser Jorah, and tell me that you think _this_ ,” he gestured with some revulsion at himself, “is the sort of man who would give up his life for another just to earn peace of mind.”

In truth, he looked like the many cowards who had placed better men, women, and children in front of him to fall upon a sword in place of himself, but now did not seem to be the right time to tell Lord Baelish such a thing.

“From what little I know of you, you are a selfish man and always have been. An only child, aye? An only child of a lesser lord. Overlooked, bypassed, and ignored, and so you have never had any reason to care for anyone else. You have had no family or friends to think consider and so your actions have never hurt anyone you cared about, but your actions hurt her. You did what you did for your own reasons without regard as to how they might affect her, only how they might benefit you. If your goal is to make peace with her to ease your own mind instead of in an attempt to bring some peace to her, it isn’t a sincere apology. Only when everything you do is for her will your torment end.”

“It would seem that dying for her is the only salvation I have.”

“You are already obsessed with redeeming yourself in her eyes. If this is the way, you should be at peace with that. If you love her, dying for her should be effortless.”

“And you speak from experience?” asked Lord Baelish skeptically.

“Aye. I contracted grayscale in my attempts to return to Queen Daenerys. The infection spread to my entire upper body in the most painfully drawn-out process you can imagine and which I will spare you the details of. I was moments away from ending my life when a brave young man put his own life at risk to cure me and when I was cured, I once again returned to my queen’s service. I had nearly died and suffered greatly to earn her approval once again but I returned to her all the same.”

“Greyscale?”

He was not the first to whom Jorah had regaled this story who had doubted its believability. Only when they saw the scars did they believe, for no one had ever survived such advanced stages of grayscale before. Jorah obliged him by rolling up his left sleeve to showcase the scars of being essentially flayed alive. The scars were a painful reminder, and a blessing.

Lord Baelish took but a quarter of a step back when he saw the angry white marks across Jorah’s skin but still appeared intrigued. A bolder man would not have done what he was about to do, but this was a man of mystery and not entirely in a positive way. He removed one glove, extended his naked hand, and with his eyes, asked Jorah’s permission. His uncalloused fingertips traced the lining of one scar in rather eerie fixation.

“A more dedicated man there never was,” he complimented, though Jorah did not necessarily take it as such. It was stupidity that earned him grayscale and kindness that saved him from it. “All of this for someone you love…what a very fine thing that must be.”

“I hope you can experience the feeling some day.” _Or at least, manage something close to it_.

Lord Baelish offered out his hand and Jorah took it more to be polite to a man he certainly did not want as his enemy when he already had too many than to actually accept what the former was about to offer.

“You may call me Petyr, Ser Jorah. Not many people in my life have, only those who I had hoped would remain life-long friends. I would be honored if you would call me by my name.”

“That is something I am unaccustomed to doing.”

“Now is as good of a time as any to start, wouldn’t you say?”

He gave no time for Jorah to respond, taking his leave with a wave of his cloak and a new spring in his step that did not sit well with Jorah who was seriously contemplating whether or not he had just unintentionally agreed to some dastardly deed. He was left a minute or two to consider running after Lord Baelish and rescinding his handshake when much heavier and sluggish footfalls behind him alerted him to the presence of someone far less amicable and someone he liked far more than the man who had just left.

“Made friends with Littlefinger, have you?” asked Sandor Clegane with a wrinkle to his nose that suggested he thought of Lord Baelish as highly as he thought of horse dung.

“I believe he thinks so,” answered Jorah carefully.

“Do _you_ think so?”

“I would hardly call one conversation with a man the cause to become bosom friends.”

“There was an awful lot of personal information in that conversation. For one: grayscale.”

“Did I not tell you about that?”

“Must’ve slipped your mind.”

“Then I apologize, for I certainly would have told you, had it occurred to me to do so but I didn’t know you while conversation was still something to be had beyond the wall and once we were surrounded by the dead, the opportunity to bring it up never seemed to be right.”

Clegane blanched, then gave a reluctant grin, and finally spat over the wall. “Never would’ve taken you for a joking man, Mormont.”

“I’m not, really. Jesting is wasted on Northerners. Our humor comes in rarity, as do our friends, and so I can tell you with absolute certainty that I do not consider Petyr Baelish to be my friend. Although,” and Jorah paused to regard Clegane, “I would consider you worthy of that title.”

Taking a long pull on his wineskin, Clegane grimaced at the taste before answering, “And what the fuck d’you think qualifies you to be my friend? You don’t fucking know me.”

“No more than you know me, but that didn’t stop you from risking your own safety to catch me as I fell from Drogon’s back. You might have let me fall and no one would have blamed you if you had. I’m afraid surviving several nights on a frozen lake by huddling together for warmth instantly qualifies you as my friend. It’s not the worst thing in the world to have one of those so near the end, is it?”

“Wouldn’t know, never had one before.”

“Would you consider having one now?”

“Don’t see why I should, for all the good it’ll do me.”

“It may not do you any good, but it can’t hurt you, either.”

Jorah had him now. He had traversed the wilderness north of the Wall for many days in Clegane’s company and though he had not had frequent or long conversations with the man, he knew his temperament, knew how he talked, and knew when he wanted to be left alone. Titles obviously meant nothing to him and so if Jorah considered himself to be Clegane’s friend, the title of being so could do no damage. It was more the principle of the thing.

Clegane saw that he was cornered and scowled at Jorah but after Jorah gave him a rather obvious eyebrow prompting, the large man conceded.

“You’re too quick for your own good, Mormont.”

“If I were as quick as you, I wouldn’t have fallen off the dragon.”

His wit earned him another smile and an inwardly substantial if outwardly meager sense of accomplishment.


	6. A Sellsword and a Pawn

**BRONN**

He had to admit that he was more than surprised and downright honored that Lady Sansa had requested his presence at the war council; he was less than pleased when after an hour into the ordeal nothing had been achieved except to point out the shortcomings of everyone in the room with accusations being thrown every which way by all parties. There was more than enough tension in the room after the war council had had to hold off for an additional day because Cersei complained of stomach pains that kept her from attending (and privately, Bronn longed to admit that incestuous bastards tended to give the mothers pain in the womb, but as always, he kept his opinions to himself). 

Now two days behind schedule, they had finally convened and the first order of business had been to put a leash on Euron Greyjoy who had made provocative marks to his niece and nephew. It came to a head that after Jon Snow, the Dragon Queen, and half the council had told Euron on no uncertain terms to shut his hole, Cersei finally added her voice and promised Euron he would sit out the remainder of the meeting and all future meetings if he couldn’t stuff it.

And so when they had at last begun to map out their defenses, Bronn was both on edge and exhausted. Standing between Ser Jaime and Tyrion, he felt his eyelids grow heavy, felt himself swaying slightly in place as the lull of Qyburn’s voice made him long for a soft feather bed. Only when he made a none-too-quiet snort did Tyrion elbow him hard in the thigh as Jon Snow took over at the table, moving wooden pieces representing each army across a detailed map of the castle layout and surrounding moor.

“Our first line of defense is the most important, as it will ensure we aren’t setting ourselves up for a mass slaughter before the battle even begins. The trenches will be filled with stakes and grease to be lit on fire as our first barrier, but only when the dead are nearly across it. We want to take out as many as we can before they realize we’ve set a trap because once they see the flames, they’ll steer clear, wait it out, and find a way around.”

He set the Lannisters and Euron Greyjoy’s army on the left flank, the Northerners, wildlings, and Yara Greyjoy’s army on the right, and the Unsullied taking up the bulk of the center. The Dothraki were positioned around the rear of the castle. Ballistas would be operated between each flank.

“Atop the walls we will have archers with runners at the ready to bring more supplies or relieve the archers, should we have to retreat to the castle itself. In the event that we lose ground, the archers will take secondary position in the courtyard and fire over the walls while the fighters take up arms at the ramparts. Should this strategy also fail, the final fallback position will be the godswood.”

“And what of the women and children?” asked the Dragon Queen’s handmaiden whose name Bronn hadn’t cared to learn.

“Those incapable of fighting will be in the crypts. There is only one entrance to the crypts but that means there is also only one exit so if the crypts are overrun, those inside may not have a way out,” said Snow.

“Won’t have to worry about that at all because there’ll be no one alive down there if you lock ‘em up with a bunch of dead people,” said Tormund. When all eyes turned to him he appeared a bit put out that no one understood him on the first go-around. “You Southerners bury your dead in crypts: decaying and decayed bodies, piles of bones, but still intact. The Night King can raise the dead to add to his armies. He raised over half of my people at Hardhome. Every man and woman who falls in battle becomes his soldier. Anything that dies belongs to him. That goes for the long-dead. If you have bodies down in your crypts, you’d best burn them before sending anyone down there to hide, or you’re just giving him more soldiers.”

“My father is buried down there,” said Snow, looking to his siblings. “ _Our_ father. Our little brother, our grandfather, our ancestors. Their bones are lain to rest down there.”

“Burn them,” said Lady Stark. “It’s just bones; the dead can’t hear us talking to their carved likeness. They won’t care if their remains are committed to the flame. Burn them, but have it done respectfully. And when it is done, then the crypts will be properly prepared to accept those incapable of fighting. And to that matter, I know that it is where I will be going. I have taken up archery in the hopes of providing some use and I would defend my people however I can with so little time to train. Myself and my brother Bran—“

“I will be in the godswood,” said the crippled boy. “The man who bore the title of the Three-Eyed Raven before me died underground, hidden from the world. If I die, it will be where I can see the stars. But I am the Night King’s ultimate goal. He comes for me because I alone can see him and his army at all times. I am the one who has thwarted him in the past and I am the last great barrier that stands in his way. He will come for me and I will be in the godswood.”

Bronn was happy to see that he was not the only one to be gazing upon the boy as if he had gone mad. The matter-o-fact tone he had used when describing his abnormality was far more disturbing than anything he had actually said, as if he thoroughly believed himself to be capable of powers the rest of them could only imagine. Once more Bronn was reminded of the image of the frozen king and how it had come to him as if in a vision, how it seemed to have been deliberately placed there as a warning to him from the crippled being in front of him.

“Dragons exist in the world, a woman cannot be burned, a man was brought back from the dead after being stabbed in the heart, and an army of dead soldiers marches on Winterfell; is it really so hard to believe that a boy has visions of what is, will be, and has been?” asked the youngest of the Starks.

“Not hard to believe, Lord Stark, just a bit jarring to hear stated so plainly,” said the onion knight, Ser Davos.

“I’m not Lord Stark. That would have been my brother, Jon, but he was chosen to be the King in the North and forfeited that right and so there is only Lady Stark. I’m not even entirely Brandon Stark, but I am the Three-Eyed Raven, and I will be in the godswood.”

“Then that’s where I’ll be, too,” said the younger Stark girl. “Bran can’t defend himself, and I trust no one else to. I’ll stay with him there.”

“You’ll need more than just yourself,” argued Theon Greyjoy.

“No, my sister will be sufficient,” said the boy. “Every man and woman who can be spared must be in the masses or on the wall.”

“But—“ the Greyjoy boy protested.

“Trust me, she is more than capable of protecting him,” said Brienne of Tarth with a knowing smile. “I’ve heard you’re a skilled archer and if that’s the case, your services are needed elsewhere, perhaps as head archer atop one stretch of the wall.”

“Precisely,” agreed Jon Snow. “There will be commanders of each flank and each position. Grey Worm has full control of the Unsullied. On the wall in charge of primary archer positions will be Ser Jaime, Lord Commander Tollett, Ser Davos, and Theon Greyjoy. The Dothraki will be led by Ser Jorah. On the left flank: Lady Brienne has the Stark soldiers and Tormund the wildlings. Lady Greyjoy will have full command of her people. Ser Beric—“

“Just Beric,” corrected the one-eyed man.

“Beric and Sandor Clegane will divide the Knights of the Vale and the remaining Northern armies. In the courtyard—“

“I will hold the courtyard,” said the strong-chinned and glaring-eyed young lady Bronn had seen earlier the day before. Her cloak bore a bear crest.

“Lady Mormont—“ began Snow.

“I know you are not about to suggest that I take up residence in the crypts, Lord Snow, not when I took up a sword at age five as the last heir of House Mormont to defend my house and my people. Five years is more than enough time to be adequate enough for your armies.”

“Quite a spitfire she is, eh?” said Bronn appreciatively, but when no one found this amusing, it was Lady Stark who came to his rescue.

“Lady Mormont is living proof of how a great leader can keep a dwindling house alive. Lords Karstark and Umber had men aplenty and lost the Battle of the Bastards, yet House Mormont offered only sixty-two men and won the battle. Lady Mormont is wise beyond her years and hardened by them in the same breath. I know you all doubt her, not for her wisdom or her fierceness, but for her size and her age, and because she is a woman. And I tell you to look upon my sworn shield, Brienne of Tarth, and my sister, Arya Stark, and tell me a woman is incapable of fighting. Lady Mormont will be where she can command her people and that is not in the crypts. Now, which of you would like to challenge that?”

“Not any of us who value our balls,” muttered Bronn, though his comment did not go unheard by Lord Varys to whom Bronn added, “No offense meant, m’lord.”

Clearing his throat to finish his strategic placements, Jon Snow restarted, “Lady Mormont has the courtyard. Gendry, Samwell Tarly, and others not as experienced in battle will also hold here. As for the left flank…”

“I have the left,” said Euron Greyjoy smugly. “The entire left. All the Lannister and _loyal_ Greyjoy soldiers have need of only one commander.”

“And every one of them will trample you to save their own skin when the time comes,” assured Yara Greyjoy.

“Can your voice be heard by the two thousand men who will be looking to you for leadership?” asked Littlefinger before Euron could summon a retort. “Lord Snow has divided the armies into manageable sections so that they may follow a leader they will be able to see. How do you expect two thousand men to all hear and see you at once?”

“I’m the only man Queen Cersei trusts to lead her armies.”

“And what of Ser Gregor and the rest of the Queensguard?” suggested Lord Varys. “I would think that each member of the Queensguard was chosen for his aptitude in battle, his prowess in the face of fear, and his leadership qualities, or has the selection process for electing Queensguard changed since I was last in King’s Landing?”

“Ser Gregor will be with me in the crypts,” said Cersei dismissively. “My Queensguard will man the entrance to the crypts to ensure nothing gets in.”

 _Or out_ , thought Bronn darkly.

“Your man is nearly indestructible from what I’ve heard,” said Snow. “I would assume the only way to put him down for good would be to take his head off.”

“Even that might not work, tried it already,” said the Hound from the back of the room.

“Oh, by all means, please contribute to this council you have already done so much for,” Cersei snapped.

“Does being ripped limb from limb sound appealing to you, because that’s what’s gonna happen if you keep your head as far up your arse as it’s been for the past hour,” returned the Hound, coming forth to lean upon the table across from Cersei. His knuckles cracked as he rested on them, glowering in Cersei’s direction. “Your maester there made Gregor into whatever the hells he is now which is much the same as a wight. He won’t go down at the touch of dragonglass and it’ll take a fucking long time for him to burn, but he’s the only wight we have working for us. D’you want him to sit on his arse watching you all shit yourselves in the crypts or d’you want him out fighting and doing what you bred him to do? He almost can’t die and we could use that but you want him at your side because you’re too stubborn to think about what better purpose he could serve.”

“You’ll not speak to Her Grace is such a manner,” said Qyburn.

“Back off, you half-a-twat. I may not be as large as my brother, but I could snap you in half across my leg just as easily.”

“Indeed, and though I’m sure that is something that would benefit us greatly, it does not solve the immediate problem, so I must ask that you refrain from doing so for the time being, my friend,” said Lord Varys, patting the Hound’s arm to divert his anger.

The Hound moved his arm away in confused distaste from being touched against his will but Lord Varys’s hand was replaced by Lady Stark’s who never spoke a word and never looked at the man she was attempting to calm. Without even matching gazes, the two of them understood one another and the Hound’s balled fist untightened. The gesture might have gone unnoticed by the majority of the room but Bronn certainly noticed, and he would wager that Lord Varys and Littlefinger had as well.

“Ser Gregor cannot lead, but he can follow, and if you would have him follow Lord Greyjoy, we can position him with the Lannister flank,” offered the Targaryen girl to cover the silence following the Hound’s outburst.

“To ensure order amongst your men, you should assign a member of your Queensguard to each segment,” proposed Tyrion. “Though a capable leader Lord Greyjoy undoubtedly is, the battlefield is too large for one man to command an entire army.”

“Are you proposing that _you_ should be one of those capable leaders?” asked Cersei with a scathing look she could reserve only for the little brother she despised.

“ _I_ am not tall enough to see over the ramparts,” said Tyrion as if explaining something incredibly simple to a simpleton, “let alone stand alongside better and braver men and women on a battlefield, but I have killed men before, as you may recall. I have killed several and if the crypts are breached, I may be all that stands between you and certain death, sweet sister, so perhaps you should worry less about where _I_ will be and more about how your armies are going to manage when their commander is swallowed by the dead within the first five seconds of the battle.”

Cersei deliberated with herself, weighing her options on which of her Queensguard was least valuable, which ones she would feel most comfortable sending away. After a moment, she decided, “I will offer up Ser Oakheart, Ser Swann, and Ser Blount. The rest shall remain outside the crypts, including Ser Gregor. If the dead breach the castle, Ser Gregor will not allow any of them to pass through the doorway, nor will he allow cowards to flee and hide amongst the skirts of women.”

“And what if the person going below has a better intention than to hide amongst the skirts of women?” asked Littlefinger. “What if the crypts are to be evacuated?”

“Then I will leave the decision whether or not to allow someone to pass up to Ser Gregor’s good judgment,” said Cersei with a leer.

“You still do not have enough men to command your full army,” said Snow, now with a touch of impatience at Cersei’s obvious enjoyment in causing distress rather than plotting out their survival. “Four men is not enough. Ten would be ideal, but we can make do with six or seven. Unless you are suggesting putting your brother on the front lines. I have no doubt he has learned to battle as well as he can in the short time he has had to relearn everything he knows, but he is not the man he was, and I mean no disrespect, ser.”

“None taken,” said Ser Jaime. “I’ve survived the battles I’ve participated in since losing my hand by luck more than skill and you are right to say that I would do little good by way of leading a division of the army if I cannot fight with them.”

“What of Ser Bronn?” proposed Lady Stark, looking admiringly to Bronn. “He has commanded many battles for you since coming into your employment, has he not?”

Lady Stark had just done him a great disservice in speaking for him. His orders from Cersei had not changed and having Sansa Stark speak so warmly about him, it would only anger the bitch queen further.

“M’lady honors me, but I’m more’ve a foot soldier than a leader,” said Bronn modestly.

“My observance of your station during the battle that occurred on the Goldroad would say otherwise,” said Tyrion. “You were riding alongside my brother, Ser Jaime for most of that battle. And you were given a position of leadership during the Battle of the Blackwater. I would say that you are a very capable leader.”

“Or are you claiming that your knighthood was misplaced when Joffrey gave it to you?” asked Lady Stark, though it was a wry remark, for she knew full well that Bronn had earned his knighthood and was only being humble—for his own sake.

Deliberately ignoring Lady Stark’s comment about her son, Cersei instead focused on Bronn in a pointed manner that told him that he would face repercussions for this later.

“The Goldroad,” said the Targaryen woman suddenly. Her unsettling lavender eyes were locked on him, calling upon a memory in which she could mark his face. There was madness in that gaze, but it had a sturdy leash keeping it at bay and just now, Bronn was all too thankful for that leash as the foreign queen pointed out what he feared she might.

“You are the man who fired the scorpion bolts at my dragon on the Goldroad,” said the Dragon Queen, and it was not a question. She must have incredible eyesight to commit the details of his face to memory and be able to pick him out now as the match.

A wittier rebuttal might have been the better option in response to her accusation, but all Bronn could think to answer was, “Aye.”

“Your Grace,” prompted the knight Ser Jorah.

“Ser Bronn does not recognize Daenerys Targaryen as his queen,” cut in Cersei smugly.

“Titles do not matter here, not now when we are all equals preparing to die if it means at least one of us will live to carry on our race,” said Jon Snow heavily. It was not an order, but a warning to not let something as trivial as proper address come between what was—at the moment—a solid alliance.

Taking heed of his words, the Targaryen continued, “With the fire burning around you and my Dothraki riding past you, you were able to pick me out in the sky and strike my dragon. And what’s more, you had the instinct as well as the ability to evade my rebuttal. How did you come to be such a skilled marksman with a weapon never tested, ser?”

Not entirely certain if he was being exploited for weaknesses or commended for his accuracy, Bronn gave a shrug. “Desperation, I suppose, like as not. I’d been given an order an’ had the second-best weapon on that battlefield. T’wasn’t personal, but it had t’be me or the dragon an’ I wasn’t prepared t’die.”

“And do you always so fearlessly commit to your duties?”

“Almost never,” answered Jaime Lannister.

“Reluctantly,” piped up Tyrion.

“With the proper amount of coin,” added Lord Varys. “Though, I must admit shock on my behalf that facing off against a dragon was worth the coin Ser Jaime paid you, Ser Bronn.”

“So you are a sellsword,” concluded the Targaryen.

“I _was_ a sellsword when I met Lord Tyrion, then Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks for a while, then—well, a bit more an’ a bit less than that, serving Lord Tyrion as an anointed knight until he was accused’ve murdering his father. Then Queen Cersei hired me to continue trainin’ Ser Jaime.”

“And it was payment that kept you in her service?”

“Mostly. I’d have been stupid t’give up on a life other sellswords could only dream of.”

“Did you receive an order against your life to come to the North to take part in this battle?”

“No, but—“

“Then why do you find yourself here when you had the option as a free man to flee with your life? How does a man who sells his services, earns the title of knight, and continues to be paid in the aftermath come to be here when it is in your best interest to be elsewhere? Why would a man who loves naught but gold abandon it all to serve his fellow man?”

“I’m not rightly sure. Maybe it was the promise of a challenge against an enemy I haven’t fought yet, maybe I’d rather face the dead than wait for them t’reach King’s Landing.”

Once more the Dragon Queen examined him and though he tried not to seem too fidgety in her presence, that stare was unsettling.

“Do you have friends, Ser Bronn?” she asked abruptly.

“Do I have what now, Your Gr—I mean, m’lady, er, fuck it all, if I’m t’be executed for the titles I give everyone here, I’d just as soon get it over with.”

It was a plea for pity more than anything. He served Queen Cersei and would face fierce punishment if he acknowledged her as anything less or if he addressed the Dragon Queen _as_ a queen. But he feared the sort of ending the Dragon Queen had for him since he had already shot at her and her dragon and not calling her by her proper title (or what she deemed to be her proper title) would not be doing him any favors in earning her forgiveness.

The tiniest of smiles played upon her lips as she extended her mercy to him. “You may call me Mother of Dragons, Ser Bronn, to avoid confusion and unpleasantries.”

“Thank you, Your G—Mother’ve Dragons,” said Bronn immediately, though the words felt odd on his tongue.

“Now, if we could return to my question: do you have anyone whom you could friend?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?”

“Because I used t’be friends with Lord Tyrion but I stayed in his sister’s service while he went t’yours and even if we fight as allies here, we all know nobody’s fooling anyone and we’re still divided, or is that too bold’ve a thing to say?”

The room shifted uncomfortably, all too aware of this charade they were playing and how fragile their alliance was.

“Not too bold of a thing to say at all, but perhaps not in the least bit helpful,” said Lord Varys at last.

“We all know where our loyalties lie and we can continue to hold true to our beliefs but it does none of us any good to think about such things right now,” added Littlefinger.

“In which case it might be best if we return to matters of war and not the terribly short list of Ser Bronn’s friends,” said Qyburn.

“And gettin’ shorter,” growled Bronn.

“Ser Bronn will take up command along with Euron, Ser Oakheart, Ser Swann, and Ser Blount,” said Ser Jaime. “These are men that our armies trust, unless Sandor Clegane would like to resume his role of—“

“I fucking would not,” said the Hound. “I’ve got my charge.”

“Lannister soldiers don’t follow traitors,” said Cersei.

 _Why the fuck would they follow me, then?_ Bronn wondered.

Finer and more boresome details followed as the entirety of the council tried to get Cersei to give up one more of her Queensguard and after another half hour, nothing further had been accomplished. Ever the peacemaker, Tyrion suggested that they all take some time to clear the air and find a meal before convening once again an hour hence. Silently hoping that Ser Jaime would fuck some sense into Cersei between now and then to put her in a better mood, Bronn snatched a leg of lamb that had been brought in for the council by serving girls and hurried out to the courtyard to relieve himself.

He had had quite a bit of wine that morning to provide some sustenance for his brain when he anticipated how grating the war council was to be and so he spent a solid minute or two pissing before he had completely emptied himself. When he had, he saw that Lady Stark and Littlefinger were wasting no time in returning to their archery lessons across the way. He had to feel some pride in a lady who was using every spare moment to better herself in a skill she was mediocre at, at best, solely to prove her worth to her people.

“I’ve heard you’re quite an archer yourself,” said a voice at his elbow and he jumped slightly to see the younger Stark girl there, having seemingly appeared out of thin air and snow. “Sansa tells me she’s seen your skill and that you’ve helped direct her in her lessons. Your honest opinion: do you think she’s good enough to man the walls, or should she be in the crypts with the rest of the women?”

“It’s not my place t’say, m’lady—“

“I’m asking you because I want to know. And I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“If y’know if I’m lyin’, why don’t _you_ tell me if you think she’s good enough?” countered Bronn.

“Because I’m not an experienced archer, nor do I know what qualifies one as being good or bad. I know the difference between someone who never hits the target and someone who hits the target every time. I have practiced with a bow when possible, but I’m not qualified to say who shows promise and who would be better off not wielding a weapon.”

“I’ll say this for her: she could be shite, but she’s determined not t’be. Littlefinger there is better than she ever will be, but in just two days she’s averaged four out’ve ten shots when she started with one. She’s got blisters all over her fingers, but she doesn’t complain. She misses over half her shots, but she doesn’t say a word. She just keeps at it an’ I think if every man an’ woman here was as stout as your sister, we might stand a better chance. But her targets don’t move: the ones she’ll be facin’ will, and I don’t think she’s ready for that. Even if she made every shot she took, she wouldn’t be half as good as every other archer here, in which case she’d do more harm than good.”

“So she should be sent to the crypts.”

“Is that her call, or yours t’make?”

“I can’t command anything of her, but she might listen to someone who can tell her how detrimental she would be to the cause,” the Stark girl suggested.

“I don’t think she’ll be wantin’ t’be locked up anywhere that Cersei is that’s guarded by a thing that can’t die. Might be that she chooses t’stay in the courtyard with the other one—Lady Mormont—or she might want t’be with you an’ your brother.”

“If the battle reaches her, wherever she is, I have no doubt that she will fight and not run, but I want you to make me a promise, Ser Bronn. From now until the last possible moment, if you still hold to that belief that my sister should not be in battle, I want you to tell her what you told me. She respects your experience and she’ll heed you, I know she will.”

Bronn shrugged, wishing these Starks would stop giving him credit he didn’t ask for, as it was doing him no favors. “She doesn’t know me, m’lady.”

“She did once. And you want her safe as much as I do.”

“What makes y’say that?” asked Bronn quickly. Did she know? He had heard rumors that this girl had become something of a silent killer, a mystery, a shadow, and deadly, and if she knew what Cersei had charged him with…

“I know because I was there that night you arrived in Winterfell. I saw you follow her out here and offer her your weapon, suggest that she carry something on her at all times that was ‘not for the dead’, as I recall. You know who wants my sister dead, but you can’t openly do anything about it, so this was your way of warning her. You may serve the Lannisters, but you chose to tell my sister. I heard it in your voice then and I see it in your face now: you’re afraid for her. So promise me that you’ll tell her true when the time comes.”

Bronn could make that promise. He could tell Lady Stark that she was a liability, send her to the crypts, and have Ser Gregor kill her when the time came. Or, he could refuse to make such a promise, let Lady Stark go wherever the hells she wanted and have the dead finish her off. She was going to die either way and Bronn didn’t care in which manner, so long as Cersei didn’t blame him. If he was going to die as well, he preferred for it to be for something worthwhile instead of something stupid.

“Your sister’s a proud woman. She’ll do as she pleases, no matter what I tell her. But I know how t’put her somewhere other than on top of the wall, if that’s what you’re so afraid of. Tell her Littlefinger is gonna be there, and she’ll steer far clear.”

The Stark girl looked disappointed in Bronn’s response, but he had his hands full trying not to get his skull crushed in on Cersei’s behalf; he didn’t need the added worry of having his throat slit by this girl in his sleep.

“Littlefinger will be in the crypts, which will only keep Sansa out,” said the girl.

“He bloody well will not. He’s a man, he’s able-bodied, an’ he has experience with a weapon. He’ll be wherever Jon Snow tells ‘im t’be an’ it won’t be in the godsdamned crypts.”

“Lord Varys is an able-bodied man—“

“He’s not a man, an’ he’s never so much as held a fork t’defend ‘imself. Littlefinger’s made it known that he wants t’fight, an’ he will an’ all archers will be on the wall, so your sister won’t be. That’s the best you can hope for, m’lady.”

He left her before she could get in another word or guilt him into reconsidering. Striding forward to toy with Littlefinger as a way to improve his mood, Bronn watched the man approach his craft with a newfound fervor. Littlefinger was firing the arrows as if each one had personally taken a blow against him. There was no openly flirtatious banter with Lady Stark today. The two of them practiced with resolve in silence.

Loudly, and with no anticipation as to what could happen next, Bronn called out to Littlefinger, “Now, no hard feelin’s, eh, m’lord? Just a healthy dose’ve mud an’ shit t’make you a real man.” When he found himself face-to-face with the tip of Littlefinger’s arrow, he chided himself for gravely miscalculating just how much humiliation the lord could take. Bronn had been far rougher with him than Ser Jorah Mormont had, but Littlefinger never once showed anger during the display, not like the fury that Bronn found on his face now.

“Lord Baelish, lower your bow,” commanded Lady Stark.

“He can give that order himself,” said Littlefinger venomously.

“Struck a nerve, have I?” taunted Bronn against his better judgment.

“My last,” Littlefinger affirmed.

“Steady,” said a new voice as an arm descended upon Littlefinger’s forward hand to lower the bow. Mormont stood there, calm and almost bored in expression as he halted the argument before it could begin. Nothing more needed to be said.

Then, to the surprise of all, Littlefinger shouldered his bow and held out his right hand to Bronn in an open demonstration of both forgiveness and respect that Bronn absolutely did not share. He had just had this man’s arrow centimeters from his eyeball and saw the capability of murder in the man’s eyes and was expected to shake his hand as if nothing had happened? Not fucking likely, not when Bronn had every intention of breaking the little bastard’s nose—

Lady Stark cleared her throat pointedly, but she was not looking at Littlefinger. She would never have dared to look at Bronn like that years ago, but she knew what she could command in her home and her command quite clearly told Bronn to make nice and now was not the time to test her, not after the conversation he had just had with her sister. 

He stuck out his hand but couldn’t bring himself to cover the last bit of distance between his hand and Littlefinger’s, so the lord had to initiate the grasp on Bronn’s fingers. Bronn allowed the handshake to last three seconds and then found himself being forcibly escorted through the curtain wall entryway by Mormont. They were out of sight of the archery post, but Mormont kept walking until they were halfway across the battlefield and just past the trenches, well out of ear and eyeshot to any busybodies.

“What gave you the impression that it would be a good idea to mock him?” asked Mormont.

“Maybe it was seein’ ‘im be mocked by anyone an’ everyone he’s ever met?” said Bronn waspishly.

“Every man has a breaking point and now is not the time to be testing anyone’s.”

“Good t’see he _has_ one, see that somethin’ can make ‘im angry.”

“Yes, you angered him, but he would not have fired. He’s not so quick to make mistakes. He knows full well what would have happened if he had murdered you for no reason other than to save face. He wanted you to see that he was capable of murder, which I believe he is—firsthand, as I know he’s participated in plenty of schemes without being the one to draw blood. That man is dangerous and whatever you think you’re doing with him, you’d best rethink it. You have no quarrel with him.”

“Do now, don’t I?”

“Did you before?”

“Aye.”

“For what reason?”

“I don’t like ‘im.”

Mormont ran his hands over his face like a frustrated parent gaining no ground in calming a sibling quarrel. “I know this is a monumental task to ask of you before I ask it, but I would implore you to be the better man, walk away, and stay away. You can’t hurt one another if you steer clear of each other.”

“After that little demonstration, I think I’d best sleep with me eyes open.” Bronn had not considered until now that Littlefinger might take this one or several steps too far in having Bronn murdered in his sleep. He had not considered the man to be his enemy until now, either, but one arrow had drastically changed that sentiment.

“There were witnesses,” Mormont assured him. “If anything happens to you, he’ll be the first to blame. He will leave you be, if you give him the same courtesy.”

“I don’t think so. People still lookit me like I’m the sellsword with no morals. But I’m a knight with no morals now an’ they still spit an’ shit on me an’ no one’s gonna bat an eye if I turn up dead one’ve these nights, mark me words.”

“Who else do you believe is out for your blood?” questioned Mormont with genuine curiosity.

“Your queen, or did you miss that whole exchange when she singled me out for shootin’ her dragons?”

“She was merely pointing out a fact and questioning you because she’s not quite sure what to make of you. If you have such fear of what she might do to you, prove yourself to be her ally. Show her that you regret having nearly killed her and that you are bound to a greater cause.”

“I shouldn’t have to. I’m here to fight, aren’t I?”

“So are thousands of other men because they were ordered to. If you want to prove to her that you are more than a man following orders, approach the dragon you shot at and feel regret with every part of your being for shooting at him. He can sense your remorse, if you have any.”

Bronn shook his head with a dry laugh and a waggle of his finger. “That’s a bit’ve a transparent way t’try an’ off me, my friend.”

“If I wanted you dead, you would be,” the knight assured him. “And if she wanted you dead, you would be, but the fact that you aren’t should tell you that she is willing to give you a chance to prove that you are a man of his word. Repent.”

“I’ve seen this hogwash before, Mormont, an’ I don’t need some septon wavin’ scented oils at me chantin’ ‘repent, repent’.”

The knight did well in holding back a grin at these words. “Yes, but see, unlike those septons who offer you hope that your sins will be forgiven, a dragon can prove it right then and there. You will have visual confirmation—or you will be dead.”

“I’d just as soon keep my sullied soul an’ continue t’live for a few weeks more.”

“Then you will receive no immunity on the battlefield. A dragon knows where its allies are and knows when to hold back on breathing fire but if it should come to it that you are in dire need and a dragon is all that stands between you and death, no help will come for you.”

“I’ve heard of some fabulous shit in my days, Mormont, but never anything quite so shining as that.”

The ground trembled and Bronn nearly toppled into the stake-invested trench as the largest of the dragons landed beside him. Mormont caught Bronn by the wrist to prevent him from impaling himself but then let go and slowly backed away as the fiery red and ink-black dragon snaked its head around to observe Bronn.

Mentally, Bronn took back every word he had just said, for the dragon’s point was well proven in its perfect timing in response to Bronn’s doubts.

The dragon veered, arched its neck back and Bronn prepared to duck and cover his head as a blast of flames washed over him, but instead the beast opened its jaws wide and screamed in his face. Bronn clapped his hands over his ears but dared not break eye contact. The sound wave threatened to knock him over but he stayed on his feet as he watched the dragon’s throat ripple with the effort of roaring at him. When it had finished, the jaws shut as the head came closer.

The nostrils inhaled and he almost had to take an unsteady step inward at the sheer pull and power of its breath. A hot, steamy exhale knocked him flat onto his back where he dared not move as the dragon lowered its maw to him and tasted the front of his tunic with its coarse, scaly tongue. He knew that if it had wanted to roast him alive, it would have done so with its breath. If it had wanted to eat him, it would not have tasted him.

But as those bulbous reptilian eyes stared him down and searched his soul for repentance, he saw that terrible lone figure on the battlefield once more, advancing toward its target: him. Defenseless, alone, Bronn felt the cold seeping into his soul, devouring him from the inside out. And as he called out for help, knowing full well that none would come, he saw a shadow block out the moonlight. A dragon descended upon the king of the dead, barring the wight’s path from reaching Bronn.

The dragon backed off and Bronn waited a full minute before he felt that it was safe to rise. When he did, he could have sworn that he saw something akin to satisfaction on the dragon’s face as if it knew what he had seen in his mind’s eye, as if it knew that he felt courage and strength in its presence. The skin around its maw pulled back once again in a rippling snarl that sounded not entirely hostile, more in agreement to an unspoken deed.

One step back, then two, and another until he had backed up a full ten paces, and then Bronn allowed himself to breathe. He did not scare easily. He had seen much during his life and come face to face with his own mortality on several occasions but he had never come so close to shitting himself as he had just now.

“Your apology has been accepted, Ser Bronn,” said the Dragon Queen from behind him. “By both of us.” She had nothing else to say on the matter, setting off at a leisurely pace back to the castle.

Bronn turned to follow her but no sooner had he done so that he felt a rush of heat on his buttocks and twixt his legs: a parting gift of the dragon sending him on his way. Swatting at his back end to put out what he felt was surely a fire there, he retreated before the dragon could bestow some other gifts upon him. As he considered whether or not he might need to drag himself through the snow to put out the smoke that seemed to be coming from his cloak, he saw the Hound and the bear knight standing aside, the former with his arms folded and the latter with a most peculiar expression on his face.

“Watched the whole thing, did you?” asked Bronn irritably.

“Aye, a bit disappointed I won’t find you in the beast’s shit later on this evening,” answered the Hound.

“A luckier man there never was,” Bronn boasted.

“And that luck is about to run out. All lucky men are going to see just how far luck can take them.”

“You’re a downright shit-poor excuse for a friend, y’know that? Could you be any more depressing?”

“I could.”

“Well don’t be an’ fuck off. An’ _you_ ,” Bronn rounded on the knight, “fuck off twice.”

“I told you Drogon would know if you were sincere in your apology. He knows you did as commanded, that you hold no ill will against him. He’s an intelligent creature and you’re one of perhaps three or four strangers who have approached a dragon and lived, so consider yourself to be something special.”

“Fuckin’ honored I am. I still think you were half hopin’ that beast would off me.”

“If anyone wants anyone dead, they only have to wait a few weeks more,” said the Hound. “And death by wights is far worse than any death anyone could conjure up between now and then. Anyone who wants you dead doesn’t value their own skins enough if they’d off one of the best men they’ve got. You’re a damn good fighter, better than all of the shits Cersei brought with her, but so am I, and so are the others who went north of the Wall with me and we were about to die when the Targaryen woman brought her dragons. And even then, it wasn’t enough. All of this,” he gestured at the hundreds of tents around them, “isn’t enough. We’re outnumbered and we’re gonna die. You’re a smart man; figure out what you want to do with that information.”

“Somethin’s definitely wrong with you, mate, because you just called me a good fighter an’ a smart man in the same breath.”

“He would be a fool to deny any of it,” said the knight. “You’re a proven warrior and that is something you taught yourself, not something learned, not something commanded of you. And you don’t scare easily. Your type is the type we need and are sadly in short supply of. And you are choosing to stay and fight when you know what’s coming for us.”

“Is that why you’re stayin’, then? Because you’re a good fighter and you think it’ll be enough?”

The knight shrugged and as experienced a man Bronn was, for as many adventures and misadventures he had had in his life, this knight had seen more. Ser Jorah Mormont had lived longer, suffered more, and was still a better man than Bronn could ever hope to be. And he was weary, world-weary and at the end of the road, creating a barrier between the dead and the rest of the world.

“I stay with my queen, but I fight because I am able. I am the last chance humanity has, the last chance our world has, as are you. There would be nothing to gain in fleeing when I feel like I can make a difference in this battle to come.”

“And you?” Bronn asked the Hound.

“If leaving means living a few weeks, a few months more, what would I get out of it? Is a few more months of misery worth it?”

“If you live those months with a certain red-haired someone, I might think so,” said Bronn with a wicked grin. He had hoped that his words would goad the Hound into some sort of action or reaction but what he received from the bigger man was—nothing. Not a scowl or a glare or even a twitch of the nose to sniff up the phlegm courtesy of the blistery day. Mormont had just as much expression on his face and Bronn shook his head with a disappointed huff. “You two are some’ve the most miserable, unlikable fuckin’ shits I’ve ever had the displeasure t’meet.”

He left them where they stood to find a private place to check that his trousers were not in need of scrubbing but as he went, a prickle on his nape gave him the sensation that he was being watched. There, across the courtyard at the kennel entrance was the Queen Bitch herself and with the most minute of nods, beckoned him to her. He passed Ser Gregor and Ser Blount as he followed Cersei into the far back kennel and bowed his head to her in a demonstration of respect she had not earned and he did not want to give.

“What do you think you are doing?” she asked him bitingly as if his wrongdoing was obvious.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, Your Grace,” he said honestly.

“You were given a very simple task, a task which cannot be completed if you are doing the exact opposite in making friends with Sansa Stark. I know how you have spent the last two days, teaching her archery, answering her every call as she commands you to publicly beat Petyr Baelish. And now she feels strongly enough about you to recommend you to lead _my_ army.”

“Perhaps she overestimates me,” said Bronn with an innocent shrug and feeling quite exasperated at this woman’s stupidity. How was it his fault that Sansa Stark pointed out a strategic inaccuracy? Cersei was the one who planned to have one man lead her entire army but somehow Bronn was the one to blame for it?

“Explain to me how this newfound friendship with that little whore helps you to accomplish your goal?”

Thinking fast, Bronn invented his reasoning. “My goal is easier t’carry out if I can be close to her. She won’t suspect nothin’ if I make out t’be her friend, make her trust me.”

“And does she?”

“If she doesn’t, she’s almost there.”

“I would have thought you would be doing your level best to see this through quickly and quietly, not drawing it out for every possible obstacle to take place. See it done, Ser Bronn, or I will have no further use for you. Littlefinger is not the only one who will want you dead and rest assured that you need not worry about what he, a dragon, or an army of dead creatures can do to you with Ser Gregor at my disposal.”

Bronn took a step back to bow and apologize but he collided with something very solid and unmovable and felt the weight of the world crushing down on his shoulder as the shape of a hand held him in place, squeezing his shoulder blade almost hard enough to shatter it.

Cersei approached him, now standing over him as his legs began to give out with the Mountain crushing him down into the mud. “I want to hear you say it, Ser Bronn,” she whispered.

Black spots were starting to appear in front of Bronn’s eyes and he could not entirely be sure that they weren’t actually there. His body begged him to reply but the words wouldn’t come. 

“A bit less, Ser Gregor, I need him yet alive,” said Cersei and the giant relinquished his hold on Bronn long enough for Bronn to fall to his knees and swallow a gasp of pain.

“I’ll see it done, Your Grace,” he panted, and then he was alone. Cersei and Ser Gregor were gone as if they had never been there and Bronn stuffed his fist into his mouth to stifle the scream he knew was coming. Knowing that questions would be asked as to the state of his appearance when he reappeared in the war council chamber less than ten minutes from now, Bronn toppled backward and lay still on the ground, hating everyone and everything.

Fuck them all, every last one of them. If all they could do with the end of the world on the horizon was bicker and plot to murder each other and use him as a pawn to achieve their ends, they deserved the death that was coming for them. He never asked for this and he’d be damned the day he decided to die for any of the fuckers. Not a one of them cared who took the fall for their schemes, so why should he give a fuck? 

He should take a horse, ride south, and keep riding. He should sail for Essos where he doubted the dead could reach and live out the rest of his days in sweltering heat with only biting flies for company because nothing north of the Narrow Sea was worth dying for and especially not any of these ungrateful shits.


End file.
